


Mercy

by Morveren



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Psychological Horror, Reader-Insert, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-05-28 09:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 70,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6324139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morveren/pseuds/Morveren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sitting in the dark, huddled under a thin blanket and well-aware of the man with the metal arm sleeping just a floor below you, you realized three things.</p><p>The first was that you could have avoided all this; you could have called for security, you could have screamed, you could have closed your eyes and walked away from the man who had more than twenty soldiers bearing down on him.</p><p>Instead, you chose the option that would change your life, maybe forever.</p><p>The second was that given the choice to redo things, you would have helped him all over again.</p><p>The third was that you were alone in your head, for the first time in nearly ten years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nefarious

It was a beautiful morning; the sun was up, the birds were singing and the small coffee shop was filled with customers. Students hunched over their laptops with their frappucinos, couples splitting a piece of cheesecake with their morning newspaper, businessmen wearing immaculate coats stopping by for their cup of black coffee and a quick hello. 

You felt as if your head was about to split open. 

**Now, now do it now!**

**Stupid, stupid, stupid, _stupid_.**

**Look at that woman on the other side of the road.**

**Take the money from the cash register, if you do it quick no one will notice—**

**Stupid, so stupid.**

**Do it, take it, do it, do it, DO IT!**

“Excuse me, miss?’ 

You blinked, rubbing your eyes and forcing yourself to focus on the person in front of you. A pretty young woman with blonde highlights in her hair was smiling at you. Your tongue felt like a dried, shriveled thing stuck to the roof your mouth and you had to struggle to remember what she wanted. 

**Stupid, stupid—can’t get anything right.**

**Woman outside the road, skirt hiking up her thighs, pretty pink panties. Look, look, _LOOK_! **

“Miss?” the pretty woman tried again, her voice higher this time. Manicured fingers played with an earbud dangling from her neck; a nervous gesture. 

Great. She was obviously waiting for an answer although, for the life of you, you didn’t know what she had asked in the first place, let alone what to respond.

 **Punch her in the face, punch her stupid face.**

Fortunately, long hours of training have given you the automatic go-to response. 

“Welcome to The Sweet Tooth, ma’am, how can I help you?” you said, cutting smoothly through the voice. That _other_ voice, that _inner_ voice that you refused to acknowledge, just one of the many voices that had haunted you since childhood. 

Your therapist had recommended humming or music to silence them whenever they got particularly loud, but you doubted that your boss would take too kindly to you plugging in your earphones while talking to a customer.

“You looked like you were in another world there,” the woman said with a tinkling laugh. 

Not cruel, you decided. Laughing with you, not at you. You managed a thin smile.

“Uhm…a Chai Tea Latte, I think. Large. And uh…” The woman’s mouth twisted as she pondered the option.

**Do it now! He won’t notice! Do it, do it, do it!**

“What would you recommend for a snack?” 

You blinked, taking a moment to gather your thoughts. The customer was staring at you expectantly.

“Well, ma’am. I’d recommend the blueberry muffins, one of our bestsellers. We just baked a fresh batch and they’re still piping hot!” you said. Another canned answer. You never thought that you’d be grateful that you knew those words by heart.

“All right, one of those muffins then. To go. I hope they’re as good as you say!” 

The woman was so friendly that you couldn't help but smile at her as you said, “They are, Ma’am. That’ll be seven dollars.” You slid the buzzer across the counter top. “The buzzer will light up when your drink and snack are ready.” 

“Oh, I think I’ll wait for them here.” She handed you a twenty dollar bill. 

**Punch her face, that's right, I’ll show her.**

“Okay ma’am, please kindly wait to the side.”

**Break her nose.**

You hummed loudly as you made the change, hoping to drown out the voice. 

You wished that you could put in your headphones. 

Seeing that there were no other people in line, you slid off your chair and, still humming, prepared the customer’s drink.

“Oh, Hozier, right?” she sighed as she leaned over the glass tabletop. “I love him, his song are just so _deep._ ”

**Really should hurry up, really late, really late.**

**Stupid, can’t do anything right.**

“Yes, ma’am. He has a talent for song writing,” you said, louder than you’d intended, you were pretty sure your voice--your _outer_ voice, the one that actually belonged to you--carried. 

Lathered milk covered the surface of the tea. You dusted cinnamon on the top. Snapped the lid over the cup.

**Fuck, break it. Don’t break it. Break it, he deserves it.**

**The square root of 864 is…**

“I know, right?” the woman said, she leaned her weight on the countertop and you didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t allowed. 

“And handsome, too.” She pretended to fan herself with her hand.

You took a deep breath, blueberry muffin left. You can do this. 

**Nonononono, no more time. Not allowed. Jump through the window, you’ll go faster that way.**

**So, so stupid.**

**Disgusting.**

**Should just give up.**

The tong shook in your hands as you extracted the muffin from the oven. Wrapped it in a brown paper bag.

 **FUCKING BASTARD!**

The voice exploded in your ear, so loud you could almost feel the wind rushing past your head as the man shouted. 

**FUCKING FUCKING SONOFABITCH!**

If anything, this voice was just as loud and you clapped your hands to your ears willing them to stop. But of course, that didn’t help at all. It never did.

Because the voices didn’t exist outside of your head. The only reason it was loud was because your diseased brain made it so. 

_It’s not real, it can’t affect you, it’s not real._ You breathed deep, trying to remember your therapist’s words. Despite this, you felt pinpricks of sweat beginning to form on your arms.

**WHERE THE FUCK DID HE GO?!**

You hummed louder. 

Somewhere in the commotion, you had dropped the paper bag containing the woman’s blueberry muffin. You picked it up and pushed it towards the woman, along with her drink.

“Order is complete, ma’am. Chai tea latte,” you said shakily. “And a blueberry muffin.” 

Normally, the rules dictated that you were supposed to fetch another muffin for the customer, should you ever drop it. The payment for the dropped pastry usually came out of your salary. But you figured that since the muffin had been in the paper bag, the woman would let it slide. You felt too ill to get her another one.

The customer was frowning at you. “You okay?” she asked, making no motion to take her order. 

“Y-yeah.” 

God, you hoped she wasn’t about to report you. The last thing you needed right now was another meeting with your manager. 

The bell above the shop’s door tinkled, signaling the entrance of another customer. A man in a business suit stepped in line behind the woman.

You prayed that she wouldn’t make a scene. 

“I get migraines,” you lied. “Just one of those bad days, you know?” 

It did the trick, the woman’s brow cleared and she gave you a sympathetic smile.

“I get what you mean,” she said. “I absolutely can’t function on days when I get migraines. Just sitting around in bed, drinking chamomile tea.” 

She slid a ten dollar bill into the employee tip box with a wink and then grabbed her order.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” she said over her shoulder.

**So stupid.**

**Wild fucking goose chase. I’ll wring his neck I _swear_.**

“Personally, I just go the old-fashioned way and take an ibuprofen,” the man in the business suit said as he stepped up to the counter. He had obviously heard the conversation between you and the blonde woman. 

“Never was one for tea,” he added.

“Then I suppose you wouldn’t be ordering our tea lattes today, Sir or would you let The Sweet Tooth change that opinion?” you said. The woman’s kindness—giving a ten dollar tip for a seven dollar order—had lifted your spirits and even quieted the voices for a minute.

But they’d be back. They always come back.

The man in the business suit gave a hearty chuckle, one that you appreciated. Friendly customers were always a treat to serve, especially on bad days.

“Nope, can’t teach an old dog new tricks, I suppose,” he said. “Give me a large dark roast. To go, please.”

“Would you like to add a muffin to that, Sir? Our blueberry muffins are bestsellers and we just baked a new batch. They’re still piping hot!” 

**I swear to fucking God once I find him, I’ll make it _hurt_.**

“Nah, I had a big breakfast. Just need a shot of caffeine to start the day.” 

“That’ll be two-fifty, sir.”

You hopped off the counter to prepare the man’s drink, this time whistling to yourself as you poured the coffee. You were determined not to let the voice bother you, no matter how angry it sounded.

 _It can’t harm you_ , you told yourself firmly. There was absolutely no reason to be afraid. 

When you came back, the man was fiddling with his wallet. 

Probably looking for the exact change, you supposed.

**Splash the coffee in his face, do it now!**

**So weak.**

**Been missing for three days, he’s never been gone this long.**

“Aha, gotcha!” 

**I’ll kill him.**

You blinked when the man slid a photo to you, along with the exact change for his coffee.

“Listen, Miss,” he began. “I wanted to ask you a favor. Have you seen this man around here somewhere? He’s an old friend, we were supposed to meet today, but he seems to be running kind of late. I just wanted to know if you’ve seen him around here. We might’ve missed each other.” 

You looked at the picture warily. You had a terrible knack for remembering faces and doubted that you’d remember the man, even if you’d seen him.

“Sorry to hold you up,” the businessman apologized. His fingers were tapping on the side of the counter. The sound jittered your nerves a bit. 

“It’s fine, sir. I’m happy to help.” Another canned response, drilled into you by years of working at the counter. 

Still, you felt curious. The man in the picture didn’t look like _anyone’s_ friend: unkempt long brown hair, blue eyes that seemed to have sunken into his skull, lips that would’ve looked sensuous if they weren’t pulled downwards into a frown.

Whoever the man was, he looked extremely unhappy. 

Either that or the photographer sucked major ass.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I haven’t seen anyone like that today,” you said honestly. “I’ll keep an eye out for him, though.” 

“Nah, didn’t expect so. Bit jittery around crowds, that one,” the man replied. He tucked the picture back into his wallet and grabbed his cup. 

“See you around, Miss.” 

“We hope to see you again, sir!” 

As you watched the man walk away, you felt a shock of electricity travel up your temple and you squeezed your eyes tight in pain.

This time the voice was deep, a man’s, whispering in the shell of your ear almost like a lover, if only the words it uttered weren’t so terrible. 

**Fucking bastard. I’ll find him I swear.**

**He’ll pay for this.**


	2. Serendipity

You could barely keep your eyes open today.

The run-in with the businessman had shaken you; it had been a long time since the voices had told you to kill someone. 

Take a perverted glance down someone’s clothes, yes.

Steal from a store or a pickpocket a man’s wallet, frequently.

But outright kill someone? That hasn’t happened in a long time.

You had spent the night talking to your therapist over the phone. She recommended that you take the next day off, in case the voices became violent again.

Unfortunately for you, you could barely afford to keep buying the pills that kept you sane, let alone take a day off work. 

So now you were seated in your regular perch behind the counter, hoping against hope that the man’s voice did not come back again. 

**The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles…**

**Electricity bill is through the roof, I don’t even want to think about groceries.**

**Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa.**

You breathed a sigh of relief. 

Nothing too violent. Just the regular, run-of-the-mill crazy-people voices. You cracked a dry smile at the thought of the word ‘regular’ ever applying to you.

Mercifully, only a few people were inside the coffee shop today and most of them didn’t require a lot of services, apart from the occasional customer who wanted the Wi-Fi password.

**Should have gone home, what do I do?**

**God, her breasts are perfect.**

You hummed quietly to yourself, willing the voices away, not that that particular technique ever worked. 

After talking to her, your therapist had asked you how the new pills were working for you.

Paliperidone. A small, white tablet that looked bad and tasted worse. You told her that it made you drool in your sleep.

“But did it make the voices go away? Do they sound softer now?” she had asked. 

You leaned your head against the counter, letting your fingers tap-tap-tap against the marble surface.

**Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done.**

**Karl Marx was an idiot.**

No, it didn’t.

None of the drugs they gave you ever made the voices go away. 

The sound of the shop bell ringing pulled you out of your thoughts and you looked up to see two new customers. Two men, deep in discussion about something. 

They spoke in low voices as if they were afraid of being overheard. The first one, a tall, muscular blonde looked absolutely exhausted. His shoulders slumped as he walked. 

Well, at least, you could take comfort in the fact that you weren’t the only one having a bad day. His friend pulled up a chair for him and nearly had to force the blonde to sit. As tired as he looked, he didn’t seem to want to rest.

“Wait here, all right, I’ll get you something to drink.” 

**Shouldn’t have cut school today.**

**Aristotle was famous for saying, “Man is a political animal.”**

**I don’t feel guilty at all, that bastard deserved it!**

“Miss?” 

You blinked, tried to focus on the customer in front of you. Like the blonde man, your new customer looked tired and he seemed to lean on the counter for support.

The words that had been drilled into you since Day One leaped to your lips, “Welcome to The Sweet Tooth, ma’am, how can I help you?” 

The customer gave you a small smile as he placed his order. 

“Two large coffees, please. Black.” 

“That’ll be four dollars, sir.”

The man reached for his wallet to pay his order and as he handed you the bills, he seemed to hesitate.

“Hey, mind if I ask you something?” he said.

Yes, you _did_ mind, but your boss would have your head if you actually said that.

“Fire away, sir,” you said tiredly. 

But before he asked whatever question was bugging him—and you sincerely hoped that he just wanted the WiFi password—the man looked quickly at his friend, who had brought out a map and was analyzing it. 

“Tell me, have you seen this man around here?” 

From his pocket, he brought out a picture, one that looked worn and frayed around the edges.

**Force equals mass times acceleration.**

**Stick your foot out, watch him trip.**

**Why were you so stupid?**

You winced in pain as the familiar sounds forced itself into your brain, making it hard for you to think.

“I…uh, let me see, sir. Maybe he came in here,” you offered. The man slid over the picture to you though you noticed how his eyes kept flicking from you to the blonde.

“I just need to know if you saw him around here,” he said in a low voice. 

“I’ll see what I can do, sir.” You looked down to analyze the person in the picture.

And froze.

_Nononononono._

You could feel pinpricks of sweat beginning to form in the palm of your hands.

_It was the same man._

The one the voice hated. The one it wanted to kill. 

He looked younger in the photo, clean-shaven with closely cropped hair. It looked like it was one of those novelty photos because he was wearing what looked like an old-timey uniform, in conjunction with the sepia-filter somebody had applied on the picture.

You felt a small trickle of sweat slide down your neck. You couldn’t afford a break down now, you didn’t want to hear that terrible voice again, so full of anger and hate and _eagerness to hur_ t. Not in such a public place and definitely not in the shop where you worked.

“You all right there?” the man asked, though he sounded more stern than concerned as if you were inconveniencing him by panicking.

You made a strangled humming noise in the back of your throat, desperately trying to brace yourself for the same onslaught of words that you had heard a day before. Your free hand had curled around your chair, gripped it tight like a lifeline.

You couldn’t afford a breakdown right now, but you shut your eyes tight, braced yourself for the roar of voices, the anger, the _hate_ and—

**Man was born free and is everywhere in chains.**

The gasp of relief that came out of you was utterly involuntary, as you realized that the hateful voice did not come back.

**It was stupid to come here, stupid to stay.**

You could have laughed then and there; you never thought that you’d be relieved to hear the word ‘stupid’, but you were. Getting called stupid was infinitely better than being told to kill someone. You felt a small smile trying to make its way to your lips.

Maybe it _was_ a one-time thing after all. 

But your reaction wasn’t lost upon the customer, who leaned closer to you and said, “You’ve seen him, then?” 

The authority in his voice was hard to ignore.

“N-no, sir,” you stammered. 

As quick as a flash, the relief was gone, replaced by worry. Did he think that you were laughing at the idea of a missing person? 

“I’ve never seen this man in person before,” you said honestly. “He certainly hasn’t come into the shop.”

You handed back the photo to the customer and when he reached to take it, his fingers brushed against yours. 

Two words suddenly seemed to flood your head, drowning out all conscious thought. 

She’s lying. 

“I’m not lying!” you said loudly. You could have smacked yourself. 

Yes, the best way to win people over is to start talking to the voices in your head. 

Smooth. 

The blonde man looked up at you in surprise and he exchanged a look with his friend.

“I never said you were, miss,” the customer’s voice had gone soft, but they held a threatening edge. When he leaned closer to the counter, you couldn’t help but be reminded of a big cat, the way their shoulders jutted out of their body as they stalked their prey. 

“Why would you say something like that?” he asked. The sound of a chair scraping against the floor brought your attention to his blonde friend, who had stood up and was now approaching you.

Your heart was beating a steady rhythm in your throat, and you had leaned away from the man as far as you could without toppling over.

“I-I…I, uh. I mean, you looked like you didn’t believe me,” you stammered.

_Please believe me_ , you prayed. _Please believe me._

**Stupid, stupid, stupid.**

**POPOPOPOPOPOP**

“Bullshit,” the man said easily. “You froze up when you saw the picture. You know him.” 

The blonde man was approaching and now that he was standing, you could see how he towered over you. If these two suddenly decided that they didn’t like schizos, you certainly couldn’t stop them from dragging you into an alley and beating the crap out of you.

_Think fast, think fast, think fast._

**Drowning seems like a bad way to die.**

“I…” 

It was hard to think with so many different thoughts flitting through your head. 

The blonde stopped beside his friend and he put one massive hand on the man’s shoulder. 

“Sam,” he said. “Everything all right?” 

His eyes flicked to the picture that Sam held in his hand. Then they looked at you.

A wave of cold fear overtook you. Fear, worry, dread, emotions that felt too potent to be real settled in your stomach like stones and you jumped down from your chair, worried that you might vomit. 

_Shouldn’t turn around when there’re customers_ , you thought woozily. 

“She knows something, Steve,” Sam said.

_No I don’t, please go away._

**Aristotle, Plato, Locke, Karl Marx**

**Fucking dumbass. Fucking dumbass.**

Your heart was beating fast inside your chest and you feared that it would break your ribs at any moment.

“If you know something, please,” the blonde man—Steve—was saying. “We need your help.” 

For some reason, despite your fear, you turned your head to look up at this man, meeting his eyes. His words seemed sincere, you could almost believe that—

**Bucky.**

_You see the man in the picture, dressed in the same old-timey uniform you saw in the sepia photo, looking at you with something akin to worry. He was holding a sheaf of papers in his hand. His lips were moving, but you couldn’t hear anything._

**HYDRA.**

_A man takes off his face like a rubber mask and you saw a grinning red skull underneath._

**They’re after him.**

You tore your gaze away from Steve, feeling ill. You’ve never had visual hallucinations before. 

“Where have you seen him?” Sam said. “We need to find him.”

**Bucky.**

“I don’t know, sir,” you said. “Please, I only saw…I only saw Bucky once in a picture. I’ve never seen him in person before.”

But instead of believing you Steve had frozen, his blue eyes going hard like bits of broken glass.

“You said his name,” he said tightly.

“What?”

“You called him Bucky. How did you know his name?” 

Is that what his name was? You felt your heart pound. How did the voices know? It was too precise to be a lucky guess. What were those images you saw? You were fighting the urge to run, hide before these men found out about your secret.

“Please, we just want to know where you saw him,” Sam said. He was obviously trying to stay calm, though for Steve’s sake or for yours, you had no idea. 

**She could be working for HYDRA.**

This time, you caught yourself before you let out an answer. You didn’t know what HYDRA was, but if it was in any way connected to the man with the red skull, you weren’t going to go anywhere near it.

“I—I saw him in a picture yesterday,” you admitted, too terrified, too worried, too _everything_ to even think of a lie. “A man showed me. He was looking for him too.”

**HYDRA.**

**They haven’t found him yet.**

Relief flooded you and you resisted the urge to sag against the counter. For some reason, the voice made you feel light, almost as if you were floating, though in the back of your head, you knew that you were still in deep trouble. 

“What did the man look like?” Steve said. “Can you tell us?” 

At least, he didn’t look like he was going to attack you anymore. 

You thought back, trying to remember the businessman’s features.

“I guess…late 30s, early forties? Around five foot six, seven? I’m not really sure. Graying hair, a bald patch at the top of his head,” you said. 

**Take it, take it _now_ , when he’s not looking. **

**Don’t mess this up too.**

“Anything else?” Sam prodded. “Distinguishing features, a scar, maybe?” 

Briefly, your mind flashed back to the image you saw, the man with the red skull. You shook your head.

“Sorry,” you said. “I’m not very good with faces.”

Steve’s shoulders slumped when he heard the words, he was obviously disappointed that you couldn’t help more. Still, he gave you a weary smile. 

“Thanks,” he said. “Sorry for snapping at you, I’m just worried about him. Is that where you heard his name?”

You felt a sudden rush of gratitude at the excuse this man had given you. 

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Said that they were supposed to meet around here he didn’t show up.” 

**Yeah, right. Meet up my ass.**

You blinked at the words. 

Why did it sound like…? 

“We’re grateful for your help,” Sam said. “Look, if you see that man again, would you mind giving me a call?” 

He scribbled his number on a piece of paper and handed it to you. 

“Will do,” you lied. 

Already you were making plans to burn the piece of paper you held in your hands. You just wanted to forget what happened today, crawl underneath the sheets and sleep until your world had righted itself again.

Well, as right as it was ever going to be.

Sam gave you a half smile. 

“Thanks.”

**I hope we’re not too late.**

****

*****

It was closing time when the voices started bothering you again.

You had decided to put the incident with Steve and Sam—and Bucky, whoever the hell he was—out of your head. You had your enough of own problems to deal with to meddle with anyone else’s. 

The thought of getting visual hallucinations in addition to auditory ones sent a chill through you. If your therapist got wind of that, you doubted that you’d end up anywhere but the asylum.

No, you definitely couldn’t afford to fix anyone else’s problem but your own. 

The damning little piece of paper that Sam had given you was still nestled deep in your pocket. You intended to burn it as soon as you got home. 

Still, a small part of you felt ill at the thought of refusing to give help to people who desperately needed it. 

Haven’t you been on the receiving end of that kind of inaction for the past ten years?

Maybe that was why you didn’t just throw away Sam’s number.

**Boneless, skinless chicken breasts.**

**Trip him, trip him, they’ll never know it was you.**

You winced and tried to focus on the task at hand, pulling down the steel shutters that protected The Sweet Tooth’s front door at nighttime. 

**Why did you have to be stupid?**

You had to bite your tongue to prevent yourself from screaming, _Shut up!_

The shutter clanked into place and you went down on one knee to secure it with a padlock. 

**FUCKING BASTARD!**

The padlock fell to the ground with a thud. You felt your throat close with fear.

It was the same voice you heard yesterday, the voice that wanted you to kill.

No, no. This could not be happening now. Not on top of a near breakdown, not on top of visual hallucinations. You locked the store as fast as you could, intent on at least getting home before you broke down.

But as you swung around—ready to run all the way home if you had to—you saw him again.

The businessman. The man who had shown you the picture of Bucky. The one who started it all.

He didn’t look so amicable now; the man’s face was shining with sweat, his face was contorted into a mean scowl. The man walked briskly, almost tripping on an uneven bit of pavement in his haste. As he got closer to you, you heard the voice again.

**You bastard. Should’ve known better than to run.**

The words were accompanied by a vicious sort of satisfaction.

He was nearing now, three steps more and he would be right in front of you. You stepped right into his path.

The businessman stopped abruptly and looked up at you in surprise. He didn’t look as if he recognized you.

“Excuse me,” he muttered and he raised his head to meet your eyes, just for the briefest second, then impatiently looked away.

It was enough.

**Asset.**

_The man, Bucky, strapped to a chair, screaming in agony. A contraption hung above his head sending thousands of volts of electricity into his brain. A group of scientists was watching passively._

“Ma’am?”

You stared at him, horrified at what you just saw. 

Was it real? You hoped to God it wasn’t. 

For the first time, you felt yourself wishing that it was just another hallucination. 

The businessman shook his head and stepped to the side, muttering about idiots. A car roared past on the road beside you. 

**He’s not going to get away this time.**

**How the hell am I supposed to pay for this?**

**No, no, no. Stupid girl, what were you thinking?**

You wiped your sweaty palms on the seat of your jeans if only to give yourself more time to think. The insistent chain of **fuckingbastardfuckingbastardfuckingbastard** was getting fainter and fainter as the businessman walked farther and farther away. 

What was happening? 

For years, you had tried to ignore the voices, in case they ever told you to harm somebody again, but for the first time, you found yourself listening. 

You made a split-second decision: you followed. 

In fact, you did more than that: you _listened._

It wasn’t hard, the hate you heard in the voice was incredible; it had the same steady tempo of a heartbeat, never abating, just a long string of **fucking bastard.**

Curiosity burned inside your gut but also fear. You were following a Voice, which was supposed to be nothing more than the product of your diseased mind. 

But every time you followed it, down the street or around the corner, you found the businessman, still walking in that same odd brisk pace and the cursed two words following him like a soundtrack. 

He made a sharp turn and quickly walked in the direction of a cafe. 

The action made you stop dead in your tracks. 

Had he perhaps spotted you?

Just the thought of it made you want to run. 

You inhaled, counted to three and then let out one explosive breath, trying to relax. Taking slow steps, you passed by the café and you could see that the businessman was sitting in one of the tables outside the shop. 

He was talking on the phone.

So he hadn’t seen you.

The thought made you breathe a little easier and you strolled past the café, intent on finding a place where you could watch the man without being obvious about it.

**I can see him, yes.**

You did a double-take, one that would have blown your cover if the businessman wasn’t staring so intently at something. 

You followed his gaze, still trying to maintain a slow walk. It looked like the businessman was staring at someone across the street, sitting on one of the waiting shed benches. 

The person was still too far away for you to see but as you neared him, a sense of dread was beginning to take hold of you, an itch in your shoulders that you couldn’t quite scratch.

It was a man. He was dressed too warmly for the weather: a baseball cap, a thick jacket and gloves. He was also sitting too stiffly to be considered casual. 

Your heart was beating wildly in your throat as you recognized his features: shoulder-length hair, deep-set blue eyes, an all-too-neutral expression on a face that would’ve looked handsome if it didn’t look so blank.

He seemed to be staring at something in the distance.

You stopped in front of a still-open bakery, pretending to browse the wares. Out of the corner of your eye, you risked a peek at the businessman.

He was smiling widely, one that showed all his teeth. 

You were reminded of the fact that great white sharks can have as many as three hundred teeth in their mouths. 

If you were ever stranded on the ocean, with blood leaking from an open wound and a shoal of sharks circling you, you would have no doubt that they would look exactly like the businessman.

The comparison was not helped when the businessman terminated his call and lowered the phone to the table, smiling all the while.

A short, vicious little sentence filled your head.

**I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch.**


	3. Syzygy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title’s based off a song I used to love. One of the lines goes, “You lose your mind, the stars align. Before you even know, it happens in a moment.” I thought it oddly fitting. Anyway, thanks to those who commented on this story and I hope you continue to enjoy it!

****

*****

**Got you now, you son of a bitch.**

You felt as if somebody lit a fire in your head and all of a sudden, your mind was flooded with voices.

**Alpha approaching from the rear.**

**Bravo’s got him in our sights.**

**Charlie getting into position.**

The pastries that you’d been pretending to study blurred, their colors bleeding together and when you blinked you saw the man—Bucky¬, only from different angles. 

_You saw him as if you were standing behind him, his back ramrod straight, stray strands of his hair escaping from his cap._

_Another one, this time, your view was partially obscured by a wall, you only saw a profile of the man._

You felt cold glass against your fingertips and the images disappeared, leaving you gasping for breath like a drowning woman. 

What was happening?

**Led us on a wild fucking goose chase you did.**

Were you going insane? Was this it? After years of therapy, of drugs and God knows how many group meetings, had your mind finally snapped?

You glanced again back at the man. He had not moved from his position. 

The businessman who showed you Bucky’s picture, the two men—Steve and Sam—who were looking for him. The very fact that following the businessman had led you to…Bucky. 

It was all too much to call a coincidence. 

And yet, that was all it was supposed to be.

Auditory hallucinations, visual hallucinations. Products of a cruel mind and a sick imagination, held in check by Haldol, Prolixin and whatever foul-tasting pill your doctor wanted you to take. 

And yet.

And yet.

**You’re not getting away this time.**

**Lethal force not authorized.**

**Three possible escape routes.**

Had you gone mad? Or had the world gone mad for you?

You took a step back from the bakery and glanced at the businessman, who was still smiling into his cellphone.

**Not yet, not yet.**

**Wish I can get a video of his fucking face when he sees us.**

**In position.**

Your feet were already moving before you made the choice. Away from the bakery, away from the businessman with the smile that had too many teeth in it, across the street, toward Bucky. 

You stopped in front of him, your heart beating so fast that you could feel your pulse in your fingertips. Your tongue was stuck to the roof of your mouth, you had no words.

**Female civilian blocking the target.**

He looked up at you, a small frown creasing the corners of his mouth. You got the feeling that this man was looking through you, rather than at you. The suspicion was confirmed when he looked meaningfully to the empty bench beside him; he thought that you were waiting for the bus.

If anyone was going to talk, it was going to have to be you. But your tongue remained stubbornly glued to the roof of your mouth. 

What the hell were you supposed to say?

_Hey, you might not know me. But guess what? I think I know you! You’re Bucky, right? Ha, funny you might ask how I know your name—it’s because the voices told me! Why are you backing away like that? Oh please don’t call 911. I assure you, I’m perfectly sane. The voices don’t tell me to kill people—ha, just you! Funny, eh?_

Maniacal laughter optional.

But you ended up doing just that, you in too deep now. If he called the cops on you, you hoped that the dark would conceal your face well enough that he wouldn’t be able to pick you out of a line-up.

“Bucky?” Your voice sounded hoarse, even to your own ears.

And just like that, as if he had been jolted with a live wire, he came alive. Shoulders straightened, his entire body going rigid, blue eyes turning as hard as glass. 

The man with the blank expression was gone, replaced by someone whose hand was curled into a tight first and whose eyes never left yours when he said, “Who are you?” 

“I—I…”

Target appears agitated. 

“Who sent you?” 

“Wait—no, please…listen.” 

The man stood up and he practically loomed over you. You suddenly felt tiny, microscopic; the kind that could be stepped on and wiped off somebody’s boot. 

He turned his head slightly and he froze. His entire body tensed and even through the thick jacket, you could see that the man was solid muscle.

**HYDRA.**

His gaze turned back to you and his anger was so palpable that you could almost feel the heat rising off him.

“I’m not HYDRA,” you blurted, just before he could speak.

**The civilian is communicating with the target. Tell Team Delta to run a scan, see if she’s SHIELD.**

The look on his face says that he doesn’t believe you. 

You felt as if you were a bomb technician, say the wrong thing, use the word—snip!—and that was it. You were dead. No second chances.

“I’m not HYDRA. But…but HYDRA’s here. They…they’ve found you.”

You waited for him to laugh or maybe even hit you or walk away with the words fucking schizo dripping from his mouth like poison.

But instead, Bucky nodded once.

“I…I…” you stammered. “There are three teams. They’ve sent three teams after you, maybe four.” 

His mouth made a tight line, but he said nothing. You had no idea if he believed you or not but something made you continue. 

“I—I think one’s behind you, another in a street corner. I don’t know where the third is but… I think somebody’s got a bead on you.” 

His eyes flicked to somewhere above your head and he nodded again. The man’s entire body was as tense as a guitar string, waiting to be plucked. You waited for him to say something, anything that might confirm what you had just said. 

You couldn’t tell him the last bit of information to this man, the one about the businessman. The man who had shown you his picture— _Bucky’s_ picture. 

Not when Bucky himself looked ready to kill. You could very well be sending an innocent man to his death. 

The man in front of you licked his lips, let out a slow breath and finally, looked at you. You braced yourself. Was he going to ask how you knew all of this? Was he going to ask you if you worked with HYDRA? With Steve and Sam? 

“Who are you?” he asked in a low voice.

**Civilian status confirmed. Permission to kill granted. Subduing the Asset remains the main goal.**

You could’ve sworn you felt it then, the heat of somebody’s gaze on the back of your neck, then—panic. 

“They’re going to shoot!” you screamed.

“GET DOWN!”

You felt something hit your back and you collapsed to the ground, just a second before the boom of a gun rolled across the street like thunder. You felt the hot gust of air that signaled the bullet just barely missing you, and terror was a train that screamed up your spine as you realized these people _were shooting at you_.

Suddenly it was as if a dam broke loose, a flood of words swamped your mind, pushing out all other thoughts.

**Fucking dodged it!**

**Shoot again!**

**Alpha team—**

**Shoot him! Shoot him!**

**…not getting away again—!**

“Get up,” you heard Bucky hiss on your ear and you felt his arm, the one that had knocked you down, tugging you back onto your feet. 

His face blurred in front of you, the colors beginning to bleed again. But you shook your head, as if trying to shake out the voices, you couldn’t hallucinate now, not when your life was in danger.

Bucky’s face came sharply back into focus.

“The team from the back,” you stammered. “They’re coming. The ones on the roof are changing positions.”

He spared a quick glance at the park and you did the same: for the first time you saw men dressed in black clothing, their forms barely visible in the darkness. If you hadn’t known what to look for, you would have never seen them.

They were carrying guns, not just handguns—rifles, submachine guns, whatever the hell they were called. 

**\--Bravo Team go.**

**Cover the escape routes.**

**What’s happening?**

“They’re on the move, we’ve got to go before they start shooting again,” you stammered. You had no idea how you were going to accomplish this though, your legs felt as if they had turned to jelly. Sweat was beginning to soak your back.

Bucky nodded again as if he was used to this sort of thing. 

“There’s an alley a block from here,” he said. “If we run, we can make it in a few minutes. From there we can lose them, hit the highway.” 

He paused, looked behind him again. “Can you run?”

“I think I have to,” you stammered.

He ran faster than you did, quickly closing the distance between himself and the alley, and you felt a cold bolt of fear shoot through you at the thought of being caught by the men he was running from. 

_HYDRA._

Blood was pounding in your ears, your heart beating wildly in your chest. 

It felt as if your senses had grown sharper, the night air stinging your face, the yells of the men distinct, even from a distance.

And the voices.

The voices grew louder, clearer.

**Running away again!**

**…contain the target at all costs…**

**Going to have to risk being seen.**

**Ready to intercept.**

Your lungs were bursting for air, but you somehow found the breath to yell, “Bucky, one of them is in the alley!” 

He didn’t even pause when he reached the end of the street and in the weak light of the street lamps, you saw the silhouette of a man. 

It raised a gun. 

A scream burst out of you, “NO!” 

It happened in less than a second. Bucky, the man in the picture, Steve and Sam’s supposed friend, grabbed the barrel of the gun with his right hand and forced it upwards, away from him. 

He raised his left arm, you heard the sound of gears whirring and when Bucky’s fist hit his attacker’s face, it was with enough force to slam the other man straight into the wall. Dust exploded as part of the stone wall crumbled, pebbles flying in the air. 

When he let go, the attacker slumped onto the ground, obviously unconscious.

_Or dead._

What have you done? Who was this man? 

There were more sounds of a scuffle, several yells of pain and that strange whirring noise again. 

**No—!**

**Shoot him in the back!**

**Shitshitshitshitshitshit**

When you rounded the corner, you saw Bucky kneeling next to another unconscious man, this time, one who was sporting a broken arm.

If you hadn’t been so out of breath, you would’ve screamed again.

Five, maybe six men lay in the alley. Whether they were dead or had been knocked out, you didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.

Fear made it hard for you to talk, to breathe. It felt as if live bugs were crawling underneath your skin, their little legs tracing goose bumps along your arms.

“A-are they dead?” you whispered. 

Bucky gave you a look, then said, “No.” 

Your gaze traveled to a man’s broken arm and you shivered and looked away. It felt unreal and you had the strangest thought that maybe it was just a mannequin’s arm, bent out of shape.

Blood glistened wetly where the arm had broken and in the dim light, you saw a flash of white that could’ve been bone. You covered your mouth, feeling ill.

“Are there more?” 

You swallowed. 

More what, _victims?_

_No siree, I’m the only one left in this alley. Just you, me and Mister Mannequin over there._

But his question gave you something to focus on, gave you time to think. You took several deep breaths to steady yourself and Bucky waited.

“I—I think there’s two more. One team’s nearly here. They’ve got guns.” 

“Okay.” He picked up one of the rifles, held it with an ease that suggested a long familiarity. After a moment, he gestured to the other discarded weaponry.

“Do you know how to shoot one?” 

You recoiled. “No. Why would I?” 

A shadow flitted across Bucky’s face and he suddenly looked _older_ somehow.

“Never mind,” he muttered. 

**Bravo Team is not responding.**

**Closer now, closer.**

**You sonofabitch, I’m going to fucking—**

“We’ve got to go!” you gasped and again, fear that great motivator, made you step over the fallen bodies and gingerly pushed Bucky deeper into the alleyway. 

“We can cut through here, hide from them and come out the other end. There’s a bus stop not far from here,” you explained.

In the back of your head, the images of the broken men still lingered, the sensation of being shot at, but you pushed them away. 

There was no time to react to those. Maybe later, you would start screaming or crying. 

But right now, you had to make sure you had a later. 

Your companion offered little resistance but he raised the rifle, his body tense. 

“There’ll be others waiting at the end of the alleyway.”

“There aren’t,” you said flatly. “They were expecting these guys to stop you. The last two are going to come from there.” You jerked your thumb behind you.

Bucky gave you a puzzled look but didn’t say anything. You wondered why he was following _your_ advice when he was the one with obvious experience being a…fighter, a soldier? Using the word _asset_ felt dirty, somehow.

The two of you moved quickly, weaving past the alleyways and cramped spaces, with Bucky going first and checking to see if there were any soldiers waiting in ambush. 

For your part, you strained to hear the voices again. After years of trying to get rid of them, there was a certain bitter irony in wanting to hear them. 

**Where the fuck is he?**

**Female civilian dressed in a dark coat…**

**Itsy-bitsy spider went up the water spout.**

“It’s safe,” you heard Bucky call. 

You followed him and breathed a sigh of relief when you saw the familiar street lamps. 

“I think we lost them,” you said quietly. “They don’t know where you are.”

Bucky opened his mouth—your heart skipped a beat—then closed it again without saying a word. He was obviously curious about how you knew, but maybe he was saving the question for when he _wasn’t_ in mortal danger. 

Not to mention that you had no idea how you knew either. 

“The bus stop is close. But…” you paused, not sure how to phrase your next request. “You’re going to have to leave that.” 

He looked down at the rifle he was holding.

“You can’t hide it under your jacket,” you argued. “It’s too big, and you’ll attract attention.” 

You expected him to argue, to say that he needed it to fend off the bad guys (that’s how it works, right?), but instead, he nodded and propped it up against the wall without a word of complaint.

The meekness of the action seemed so different, so unlike the man who had slammed an attacker into a wall, hard enough to break stone, that you stared. 

It _was_ nice of him not to make a fuss about it, though. Sort of.

So you forced on a smile and said, “Thanks.” 

A startled expression flitted across your companion’s face and that single word seemed to shake him more than the gunfire and pursuing soldiers. 

There was a long moment of silence, then he mumbled, “You’re welcome.”

****

*****

Because of the late hour, there were only a few people on the bus and the conductor barely gave the two of you a passing glance as you boarded.

When you were seated, you noticed that Bucky was staring at you.

“What?” you asked. 

“You’re bleeding,” he said. He touched his nose briefly to indicate the spot.

“Oh crap.” 

With the ease of long practice, you grabbed a tissue from your pocket, rolled it into a ball and held it under your nose. When you pulled the ball away, it came back red.

You put the tissue under your nose again and tilted your head back to ease the flow.

“Sorry,” you said, feeling your face heat up in embarrassment. “It happens sometimes.”

Bucky continued to stare. 

More to change the subject than out of any real interest, you said, “Is there someplace you can hide out? Where do you live?” 

“Brooklyn—” he began then stopped, shook his head. “N-no. I…I’ll get off at…maybe a few stops from now.”

He stared at the window but didn’t seem at all interested in the scenery outside.

You could see him going back, retreating in on himself and becoming the man you saw on the bench, the one who didn’t notice God-knows-how-many soldiers bearing down on him when he had enough skills to take out a small group of them.

“Hey,” you murmured. “If you want, you can crash at my place.” 

_What the hell were you doing?_

Bucky lifted his eyes and there again, you saw the same startled expression on his face, as if he didn’t know how to react to…what? Kindness? Politeness? 

You took a moment to consider how hard a life the guy must have had to be shocked by something as simple as a ‘thank you’ or an offer to stay for the night. 

“It’s not much,” you said hastily. “It’s small. And you’ll have to sleep on the couch. But it’ll give you a place to stay.

But Bucky was nodding again and though his face remained as neutral as ever, you detected a glint of gratitude in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said.

You didn’t have to force yourself this time. 

This time, your smile was real. 

“You’re welcome.”


	4. Eloquence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that I was late in posting this, I couldn’t find the time to write this because I’ve been having a bit of a shitty week…erm, weeks. But since I’m going away for the weekend, I tried really hard to post this before I left, so I hope you like it!
> 
> I’d really like to thank those who took the time to read and review my story! It’s so very encouraging to read what you all think of my writing! Thank you! I actually had to change the story description because the Reader doesn’t know who Bucky is.

****

*****

The sound of jiggling keys, the click of an electric switch being snapped on and harsh white lights bathed your apartment.

You squinted to give your eyes time to adjust.

“Well, um…here we are. Home sweet home.” You tried for a smile, but it didn’t quite take. Especially after seeing Bucky’s too-neutral expression as he surveyed your home.

Watching him take in your apartment, you were painfully aware that as far as homes go, yours was no castle, barely even qualified as a _home_. You’ve always thought of your apartment as a faded place. Despite the brightly colored portraits that decorated the walls, the room had an undeniable feeling of emptiness to it.

_Undertone_ , as your father would say. The first layer of paint that an artist puts down on the paper meant to highlight the colors of the main subject. You had wondered then if one had a color for depression, and why on earth the contractors chose to use it to paint your apartment walls.

You waited for your companion to speak, make a comment on about the state of your apartment. Despite the dreary atmosphere of the place, you had kept it clean and well-organized. Your father had chipped in, buying cheerful yellow curtains that contrasted sharply with the piss-colored wallpaper and had even brought you some colorful mason jars to put spare coins into.

However, when it became obvious that Bucky wasn’t going to say anything, you felt compelled to break the silence.

“Well, uh…here it is. _Mi casa es tu casa_.” You tried to make a joke out of it. “If you’re from the mafia, by the way, the going rate is about a hundred thousand dollars.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“That was a joke.” A sudden spike of anxiety shot through you. “You _aren’t_ from the mafia, are you?”

The silence stretched just long enough that you were beginning to wonder what it would be like to wake up to a horse’s head in your bed before Bucky said, “No.”

“That’s good…I think. Why don’t you sit down?” You gestured to the couch.

Never let it be said that your father never taught you any manners.

Bucky took three quick steps and quite literally sank down on the couch, his head already drooping and his eyes almost closing.

Almost.

You could see how his pupils were flicking back and forth as he took in your apartment.

“That’s where you’ll be sleeping, by the way.”

There was a large rip on the sofa’s backrest, where the stuffing was coming out.

“We can put a blanket over it, it’s not that bad,” you added hastily.

Bucky nodded, barely seeming to hear you.

It was like talking to a rock.

A rock who can smash people into walls and take down trained soldiers without breaking into a sweat.

Yeah, a rock.

He was rubbing his left shoulder idly as if it bothered him and you remembered how punching something could cause bruised knuckles, sore muscles.

“Hey, um.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked over to you. There was something vaguely unsettling about his eyes as if he was waiting for something. For what? For you to run? To leave yourself open to an attack? 

You didn’t know.

“We should take a look at your arm,” you offered. “You hit it pretty hard back there.”

_I think you broke a man’s skull with it, too._

It was the wrong thing to say, his right hand immediately tightened on his shoulder and eyes turned hard. His entire body tensed, muscles standing out underneath his jacket.

“No.”

“But—”

“ _No_.”

You swallowed and decided not to push it. “You sure? There were…a lot of men in that alley there. You could have some internal bleeding.”

But Bucky was already shaking his head.

“I’m fine,” he muttered. His words contrasted sharply with the way his hand was still rubbing his shoulder.

You decided not to push it.

“Okay, then. I’ll get you some blankets and some pillows. You know, so you can rest,” you said.

The man gave no indication that he heard you.

You started up the bottom of the stairs and paused, wondering if you could leave this stranger alone in your apartment. On the bus, it had seemed like the right thing to do, but now your head was swirling with images of you coming back to the ground floor, your apartment stripped clean of all valuables—not that you had many. You thought of the mason jars filled with coins, the five-year-old laptop that you had so stupidly left in plain view on the dining room table.

You raised your voice, “I’ll be right back,” you called.

No answer.

You were cursing yourself now, taking the stairs one step at a time, making sure to lean your weight on places that made them creak.

This turned out to be a good thing, however. Because if you hadn’t gone so slow, you wouldn’t have heard Bucky speak, in a dreamlike voice, as if he was unaware of what he was saying.

He said, “Thank you.”

****

*****

The pillows smelled of dust and mothballs and there were several holes on the blankets that you had brought down, but Bucky didn’t say anything when you brought them down. The man said so little that you sometimes forgot that he could speak at all.

He did, however, meet you at the bottom of the stairs and had taken your load from you. He managed a lot easier than you did, barely even changing his expression as he trudged back from the living with the pile over his shoulder.

“Thanks, didn’t realize how heavy those were,” you gasped, massaging your arms.

He pulled a shirt and a pair of pants from the bundle and gave you a quizzical look.

“I brought you some clothes, too,” you added. “My dad’s. It should be a bit loose on you, but I figured you’d want to change. Or take a shower. He won’t mind anyway, he hardly comes here. Hope you don’t mind old man clothes.”

The shirt was a faded blue and its sleeves were frayed at the edges, while the pants still had streaks of paint from where your father had wiped his brushes on them.

But Bucky smiled vacantly at your comment and shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

Three whole words. A new record.

“Bathroom’s over there. Hope you’re not afraid of spiders cause there’s a huge one just hanging out at the ceiling. I think it’s laying eggs.” You jerked your thumb behind you.

Bucky nodded and entered the bathroom.

With his presence gone, the apartment seemed strangely…empty. Quiet. 

You wanted to unfurl the blanket and make a makeshift bed for Bucky, but the living room suddenly seemed too…big. Empty.

Six-by-six feet had never seemed so vast.

The small hairs on your arm rose.

It was creepy.

You talked to him through the bathroom door.

“So…umm…are you hungry? I could cook something.”

Hope he liked ramen.

“Or order take-out. Chinese. Pizza. Whatever.”

You all but pressed your ear against the door when he spoke, “No.”

You could feel your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. The urge to keep babbling at him was near overpowering. You wanted to scream, put some music on, break down the door and force him to talk to you.

There was a small wooden window attached to the bathroom, the landlord’s cheap alternative to an exhaust fan. You had always kept it open to keep the place from becoming too musty, but it never occurred to you that it left whoever was in the bathroom exposed to prying eyes.

It’s not like you had a lot of people over.

You raised your eyes to it now and your jaw dropped.

Bucky had removed his jacket and was in the process of taking off his shirt. His hands came up to tug it off.

One flesh-and-blood hand and another that looked like it was made of…silver? You blinked. It moved so smoothly that you had almost convinced yourself that it was a glove.

Maybe Bucky was into roleplay or something.

Cosplay. LARPing.

But then he pulled of his shirt and all thoughts of roleplay fled your mind.

It was a prosthetic. That wasn’t what made it surprising though, you’ve seen prosthetics before, had even attended an event on them once, when someone had suggested using implants to fix whatever’s wrong with your brain.

But Bucky’s arm looked so much more advanced than any prosthetic you had seen. He made the ones showcased in the event look almost prehistoric. It had none of the stiff, jerky movements that the other prosthetics had, the kind of delayed response that had so frightened you when you thought about fixing something like that to your head.

Smooth metal plates seemed to shift in place as it moved and the whole thing made a low, whirring sound.

_So that’s what it was._

You wondered who manufactured it and why they weren’t making a mint off of these things.

The word _HYDRA_ flashed through your mind, the man with the red, grinning skull. You had to suppress a shudder.

Several nasty scars were scattered along his shoulder, where his metal arm met his shoulder. Dark, puckered skin, like burn marks.

You couldn’t help yourself from recoiling. They looked painful. Had he gotten in an accident of some sort?

There was the soft rustle of cloth, the whirr of Bucky’s prosthetic and you found yourself staring into hard, blue eyes.

“Crap!” Your voice came out as a squeak.

“I wasn’t peeping!” you squeaked. “The window was open and um—”

You stopped talking when you realized that you were making the same sort of excuses a pervert would.

For some reason, you remembered the way one of the voices would whisper in your head, _look up her skirt, see her pretty pink panties_. You felt a hollow, sucking sensation in your gut. 

When the bathroom door opened, you simply said, “Sorry.” In a small voice to your shoes.

Bucky, as usual, chose not to say anything.

“Look, I forgot there was a window, okay? I was close to the door because—” You broke off, unsure of what to say next.

What _could_ you say? That the apartment that you’ve lived in _for years_ scared you? That you had nearly pressed your ear to the door because the silence bothered you?

You shut up.

“Did you see…?” he asked, his voice trailing off. When you looked up at him, you realized that he had pulled his jacket back on. A quick glance at his hands told you that he had done the same with his gloves.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” you said.

Bucky made a quick jerking movement, almost as if he was reaching for his prosthetic, then he paused and let his hand drop. The action reminded you of the way you used to rub your ears when the voices got too loud. You had stopped when your father noticed the habit.

The silence between the two of you stretched on until you could hear your blood pounding in your ears.

“I, um…are you cold?” you said, more to break the quiet than anything else.

When the man gave you a questioning look, you continued, “You put your jacket back on. And the gloves. I can bring down a few more blankets. I think. Or something warm at least.”

He shook his head. “No.”

Now that you looked at it, he seemed quite uncomfortable.

You wondered if he had pulled on the extra clothes because he thought you were some kind of pervert and before you knew it, you were babbling again, “Look. I said I was sorry about looking in on you while you were changing, but for what it’s worth, I’m not planning on stripping you naked and taking pictures of you. And I’m certainly not planning on wearing your face on top of mine.”

Great. You had no idea that you could possibly sound like even _more_ of a lunatic.

You swallowed, waited for Bucky to walk out, call the cops on your or something.

But the corners of his mouth lifted up in an almost-smile.

“Wearing my face?” he repeated, sounding amused.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until you let it out, relief flooding you. Hell, you knew how _you’d_ react if you caught somebody peeping at you.

“Oh, you know, Texas Chainsaw Massacre? I always was a bit of a Hellraiser fan myself.”

It was the wrong thing to say and the smile that had been forming on Bucky’s face dropped. His eyes dulled.

“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t know.”

That seemed like a pretty extreme reaction to not having watched a horror movie.

“Welp, unless you like carving people up, you really didn’t miss anything,” you said, trying to sound teasing instead of confused.

If anything, that seemed like an even _worse_ thing to say and Bucky simply walked into the living room, keeping his back to you. The guy was pretty good at sending the ‘ _I am done talking now_ ’ signal.

“What did I say? It was a joke! You don’t…” You swallowed. “You don’t _really_ like carving people up, do you?”

Images of Captain Spalding and Pennywise flashed through your mind, all the horror movies you’ve watched as a kid coming back to you.

Worse, you remembered the way Bucky had punched the man in the alley, with every force of his body behind it. Judging by your brief glimpse of his prosthetic arm, it looked solid. Heavy.

The broken bone jutting out of a soldier’s arm.

This time, you couldn’t suppress the shiver that traveled up your spine. Your stomach was a tight knot.

When you looked up at him again, Bucky was watching you.

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

Then, as if to convince himself that it was true, he spoke again, “I don’t.”

You inhaled sharply.

Dear God.

The man you’ve let into your home could possibly be a murderer.

_And you just creeped on him while he was changing._

For one fleeting second, you wondered if the businessman and the soldiers were actually police, FBI, the National Guard or maybe even the Avengers.

Then you remembered the string of curse words you’ve heard while the businessman was around: _fucking bastard, fucking bastard, I’ll make it **hurt**._

_Bucky, strapped to a chair, a machine above his head. A thousand volts of electricity coursing through his body._

You straightened your back.

This was absolutely the right thing to do.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Bucky’s voice broke through your train of thoughts. He hesitated, then added, “If you want, I can leave.”

“No!” You spoke so quickly that he stared.

“I…um…” You tried again. “It’s late. You probably won’t be able to go catch a bus to…Brooklyn or something. You can stay. Just don’t…um, kill me and wear my face?”

You were rewarded with an actual smile. With a small jolt, you remembered that his eyes were blue, rather than grey. Most of the time, they looked like somebody had sucked all the color out of them.

“Okay,” he said gently.

“Sorry about the accommodations.” You motioned to the sofa and the dusty blankets. “The waterbed that I usually reserve for guests is still in the shop getting fixed.”

Bucky shrugged, his movements now a lot looser than they were before. But his shoulders still had a stiffness to them, as if he was waiting for something to happen; the men in the park, maybe.

“It’s all right. Better than what I’m used to, anyway.”

You thought of the businessman and the chair and suppressed the urge to agree.

A yawn suddenly overtook you before you could stifle it, tears collecting at the corner of your eyes.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you.

“You should rest,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

You saw no reason to disagree.

“Yeah, you’re right. Well, make yourself comfortable. Good night,” you said, making your way to the stairs.

“I will. Good night.”

But as you were climbing up to your room, you peered back at Bucky, wanting to ask if he needed anything else.

And saw him settling down on one of the chairs, instead of the sofa.

You decided not to take your nightly dose of Paliperidone; it made you sleep a little too deeply.

You kept your white noise machine off, too.

Just in case.

****

*****

When you had asked him if he liked carving people up, he had said no.

But the people who were after him sounded like they did. You remembered what the voices had said: _I’ll make it fucking hurt. Wish I can get a video of his fucking face when he sees us. You’re not getting away this time._

Again, you thought of the chair. Bucky strapped down to it. Him screaming.

The group of scientists watching him scream, their faces not showing a hint of emotion.

You rolled in bed, feeling sick.

Sitting in the dark, huddled under a thin blanket and well-aware of the man with the metal arm sleeping just a floor below you, you realized three things.

The first was that you could have avoided all this; you could have called for security, you could have screamed, you could have closed your eyes and walked away from the man who had more than twenty soldiers bearing down on him.

Instead, you chose the option that would change your life, maybe forever.

The second was that given the choice to redo things, you would have helped him all over again.

The third was that you were alone in your head, for the first time in nearly ten years.

The voices had gone silent.

You wondered if that was a good thing.

****

*****

You were freezing.

It wasn’t supposed to be this cold. You blew on your frozen fingers, rubbed them, hoping to warm them up.

Nothing.

You wished that you hadn’t given Bucky all the spare blankets, you could have used them. Then you felt guilty because if _you_ were cold, he must be cold too.

Still, it was hard to hold onto the feeling when you were failing to keep your own fingers warm.

What was happening?

You curled yourself into a ball, willing the chill that had gone over you to disappear.

**32557038**

Oh, for God’s sake. Your stomach tightened.

The voices were back. Of course they were going to come back _right when you were trying to sleep._

**Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th.**

**32557038**

**Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th.**

You sighed.

You had left the white noise machine on a table next to the bottle of pills, just a few feet away from your bed. Which was, of course, a few feet more than you were interested in moving.

**32557038**

You stood up.

**Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th.**

You were just about to turn on the machine when you heard the sound of breaking glass. Your hand hovered above the _On_ button.

Had someone broken into your house?

**Wipe him.**

_You saw the scientists again, their faces blurring as they hovered over you. There’s something soft between your teeth; it was hard to breathe._

_The sound of whirring metal. Something cold and hard against your arm, your chest. You couldn’t move._

_You were forced on your back._

_Crackling electricity._

_The chair, the chair, the chair, the chair, the chair, THE CHAIR, THE CHAIR, THE CHAIR._

_**Steve.** _

 

You gasped for air; that first, desperate breath breaking you out of whatever the hell you saw. Warm tears streamed down your face.

There was a tight band around your chest and you clawed at it, thinking that it was the cold straps of that fucking chair. Fingers raked against flesh and you felt a brief flare of pain.

No, it wasn’t the straps.

You choked back a sob, small, wet gasps leaving your throat. The images wouldn’t go away, the sensation of being held down wouldn’t go away. You could still feel that soft, rubbery _thing_ between your teeth. You felt unclean, dirty.

What was happening?

If your ear hadn’t been pressed to the floor, you wouldn’t have heard the muffled scream that came from the first floor.

You sat bolt upright, feeling your heart pounding against your chest. Cold pinpricks of sweat began to form on the back of your neck.

**James Buchanan Barnes…**

You were up and running to the door, your bare feet thumping against the wooden floor. The doorknob felt like ice against your fingers.

…Of the 107th…

What was happening down there? Again, you heard the sound of shattering glass.

You paused.

What was Bucky doing down there? Was he hurt? Was he sleepwalking?

_Did you really want to go downstairs?_

**32557038**

You wished the voices would go away, that stupid number felt like it was seared into your brain. The noises downstairs wouldn’t stop.

Had the men in the park found Bucky? Your grip on the doorknob tightened, the sweat on your palms making the surface shine.

If they had, you had no right to stand there, in the safety of your bedroom while he was getting hurt downstairs.

You turned the doorknob.

**Mission. Eliminate Captain America. High priority.**

You made your way down the staircase, your hand gripping the metal railing. Your heart was beating a frantic tattoo against your chest.

What would you see down there?

**Eliminate Captain America.**

The stairs barely creaked as you came down, putting as little weight on them as you could.

**No weapons at disposal.**

You could hear the humming of Bucky’s prosthetic and you breathed a sigh of relief that he was alive.

Or at the very least, fighting.

When you reached the first floor, your jaw dropped open.

Chaos.

It was absolute chaos.

The mason jars that your father had brought for you lay shattered on the floor, coins and bits of broken glass shining in the weak light, like diamonds.

The curtains had been ripped from their frames, the steel metal rod nearly bent in half. Scraps of cloth that were all that’s left of the blankets you had given Bucky littered the room.

One of the walls had a round dent on it, shaped almost like a fist.

The wall was concrete.

At the center of the carnage was Bucky, his back turned to you. He must have removed his jacket before going to sleep because he was dressed in your father’s old shirt.

It was tight on him. The muscles along his shoulders stood out and despite the weak light, his metal arm shone.

It was curled into a fist.

You suddenly felt very cold. Was that the same hand that had created that dent in your wall? You were almost sure of it.

**Target out of sight.**

**Eliminate Captain America.**

You took one step forward and another, and another. He gave no indication that he heard you. Other than the sound of the metal plates on his arm shifting, the apartment was dead silent.

As you reached out a hand to touch him, a question suddenly forced its way into your head.

“Bucky?”

_Was ‘Bucky’ short for ‘Buchanan’?_

He turned around to face you and you saw that his eyes had nothing human in them at all.

Then his hands were around your throat.


	5. Aquiver

Your back slammed hard against the floor, knocking the wind out of you. You tried to suck in air, but instead of air, fire filled your lungs, a tight band against your chest that seared a line against your skin. 

Your chest rose and fell, but you couldn’t breathe.

Bucky loomed above you, his metal hand ice-cold against your throat. 

A small, scratching noise filled the room, your fingernails scrabbling uselessly against his fingers. The man barely looked like he heard the sound or even the small, desperate squeaks you made as you tried to breathe. Bucky’s face was strangely…empty. 

No remorse, no sadness or even anger. It was just blank. 

A flood of words filled your head, a language you couldn’t even begin to understand. 

That was when in hit you, _he wasn’t going to let go_. A cold wave of fear crashed over you, sweeping away all rational thought and you bucked underneath him, trying to throw him off, legs beating uselessly against the tiles. 

It was like trying to get out from underneath a boulder. 

His hand tightened around neck and white dots floated across your vision.

Fingers desperately trying to pry his hand loose, lungs bursting for air, a strangely calm thought entered your mind, _He’s going to kill me, this is how I’ll die_.

And somewhere in the back of your head another voice, just as calm said, _No._

Your lungs were on fire now, you should be struggling worse than ever, but you stopped trying to remove his hand from around your throat.

Darkness was creeping at the edges of your vision.

Your hand shot out, closing the gap between the two of you. Your fingers brushed against his cheek.

And he was off you, the weight of his body disappearing, the pressure against your throat gone.

You breathed— _goddammit_ you breathed—great gulping gasps, somewhere between crying and choking. Air had never tasted so sweet before.

Tears streamed down your face and you made no effort to scrub them away. It hurt to breathe.

Bucky was standing a few feet away from you, his face hidden in shadow. His presence was a shard of ice between your shoulders; you were terrified that he was going to jump on you and finish the job. 

When he took a step forward, you recoiled away from him, unable to stifle a frightened squeak.

“I’m—”

“Don’t come any closer!” you screamed—or tried to scream, your voice wavered and broke at the first word.

He stilled, his face twisting as if in pain. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, though he made no move to come any closer for which you were grateful. You were finding it hard not to wheeze.

Something warm dripped down your nose, pooling at the edge of your lip. When you touched it, your hand came away red. 

Of all the times to get a nosebleed. 

You stood on shaky legs, groping for the paper towels you kept on the counter. Though your nose was bleeding freely now, you kept your attention on Bucky, who hadn’t moved from his spot. 

He was so still that he could’ve been a statue, though his eyes roamed your apartment or what’s left of it. As cruel as it may sound, the look of horror on his face was a welcome respite from the blank mask he had worn when he was trying to strangle you. 

It frightened you that they could be the same person. 

You shifted subtly, trying to keep the rack of knives in view. 

You rolled a piece of the paper towel into a small ball and held it under your nose to stop the bleeding, tilting your head back to ease the flow.

“Don’t,” Bucky said suddenly and you jumped. Your free hand itched to grab one of the knives.

He paused, taking in your reaction. Without his jacket, you could see how the plates on his arm would shift when he moved.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “It’s just—you’ll swallow your blood that way. Lean your head forward.”

When you didn’t move he added, “I won’t hurt you…Hard as that may be to believe right now.”

“It is,” you confirmed. 

He didn’t reply. Instead, he seemed to focus on his metal arm, slowly closing it into a fist and opening it. Cautiously, you followed his advice, leaning your head forward instead of back.

After a while, he mumbled, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

You wished that your heart would stop jumping every time he spoke.

“I could clean up or leave. If that’s what you want.”

“Why?” you asked softly.

“Why…what?”

“Why did you try to kill me? I haven’t done anything to you,” you paused to breathe, the absurdity of the situation hitting you. A stranger who you had invited into your home, because he was being chased by people who wanted to _torture_ him just tried to strangle you. For God knew whatever reason.

“I haven’t done anything to you,” you repeated, feeling lightheaded. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said again. “I didn’t want to hurt you. It was just…” His voice trailed off and his prosthetic clenching into a fist. 

The sight of it made the hairs on the back of your neck bristle.

“I—I…I’ll just…I’ll leave,” he said. Bucky moved from out of his spot, heading toward the door. 

You could hear him sliding the deadbolt lock on your door.

That should have been the end of it, him walking out of your life and you trying to forget that the incident ever happened. 

Well, that was how it _would_ have happened, had you not seen the red mark on his cheek, as if the skin there had been burned. 

Exactly where you had touched him.

Something inside of you was screaming, you could feel it building inside you, could feel your own pulse in your fingertips.

How had you managed to throw Bucky off?

He was obviously well-built, he knew how to handle himself in combat. You wouldn’t even know how to _fight_ somebody like that.

But the red mark on his cheek said otherwise. 

_Maybe it was just a rash_ , you told yourself. _Maybe he just decided not to kill you. Maybe he was just crazy. Like a split-personality or something. Better to just let him leave._

A thought forced itself into your brain, low and accusatory: _Crazy like you?_

You squeezed your eyes shut.

What was happening?

The image of Bucky strapped to the chair haunted you, the way the scientists were looking at him.

Like he was lab rat instead of a human being.

Then, you remembered what you had felt just before you went down the stairs: Something soft between your teeth, tight bands strapped against your chest. Blurry faces staring back at you. 

Just the memory of it made you feel dirty.

And the voice that had resounded through your head.

You’ve heard repeating voices before but mostly it was just something mundane like _A squared plus B squared is equal to C-squared_ or something like that. The voice you heard sounded…desperate. 

Manic, even.

You glanced at Bucky’s retreating back.

If you didn’t say anything now, you might never know. 

_He could kill you_. 

But you needed answers, _hungered_ for them like a starving man hungered for food. 

Nearly ten years of this hell, of never being alone in your head, of having the voices follow you wherever you. 

_Schizophrenia. Auditory hallucinations._

And now here you were with a single, terrible question.

_What if they aren’t voices at all?_

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

He froze. 

“Of the 107th.”

You could hear him breathing harshly.

“32557038”

“Where did you hear that?” Bucky still hadn’t turned around to face you, though you could hear the crack in his voice.

“That’s you, isn’t it? James Buchanan Barnes.”

He didn’t say anything for the next few minutes, the silence only punctuated by the whirr of his arm.

You wanted to keep asking, keep talking until he told you the truth. But something stopped you, something about the way his voice cracked at the edges when he had asked you where you heard his name, as if the tiniest pressure would cause it to shatter.

“My name,” he said quietly. “Is Bucky.”

“That short for Buchanan?” 

“Only my mother called me Buchanan.” You were startled by the sudden lightness in his tone as if the memory made him smile. Then again, your father called you all sorts of embarrassing nicknames, so you couldn’t talk. 

But when he turned around to face you, there was no trace of a smile on his face.

“Where did you hear that?” he asked.

“Close the door, you’ll let in mosquitos.” 

He blinked but then stepped inside and closed the door gently behind him. Something inside you was screaming at you for letting him back into your apartment.

“I need to know where you heard that,” Bucky said quietly. 

He paused, then added, “Please.” 

“From you, I think,” you admitted, your voice just as low.

You could see his eyebrows drawing together as he loomed over you.

“Me?”

You licked your lips nervously, not daring to meet his eyes. Bucky seemed calm enough, but that didn’t stop your hands from shaking.

“I think,” you began slowly. “I think I can read minds.”


	6. Aurora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love and gratitude to those who took the time to review this! I can’t say how much I appreciate your comments and how much they really spur me to keep on writing! Thank you so much for taking the time to tell me what you think of the story, I really am grateful to you all!
> 
> I’m really sorry that this took so long to update! Now that my work is winding down a bit, I hope that I can go back to updating weekly. I’d also like to apologize for the um…ending. I normally try to avoid that kind of ending, but it’s been a tiring week so I decided to cut it off from there so I can write the next sequence when I’m more rested. Anyway, I hope you like it!

Silence.

You expected laughter, condecension, maybe even mockery, but you didn’t expect silence.

You shifted uneasily, unused to the sudden quiet, the lack of voices. The only sound you could hear was Bucky’s harsh breathing. All the color had left his face, making the blue of his eyes stand out.

He looked like a ghost. Or a skeleton.

“I know it sounds crazy…” you began hesitantly.

“I believe you,” he interrupted. “That’s why…that’s why I can’t be here.”

Your heart squeezed at his words. He just tried to kill you, you shouldn’t be stopping him from leaving your apartment. 

But the thought of someone recoiling—no, _running away_ —from you was almost too much to bear. You didn’t want to be alone with your thoughts, with the questions flitting around your skull. Right then, nothing seemed more terrible than having to answer them.

Had the doctors been wrong all along?

Were all the pills, the therapy sessions, the psychiatrists, every damned thing that your money went to for the last decade, were they all useless?

And if you were hearing thoughts, did that mean that at the night of the fire…

You jerked your head violently when you heard the voices start again. They were…subdued. Not like the loud, violent ones you heard in the coffee shop.

These ones sounded more like whispers, wisps of voices just at the edge of your hearing.

**December 1991…**

**July 1976**

**1997\. October…October….**

“Hey,” you said suddenly.

The voices cut off. Bucky focused on you. His metal arm was periodically clenching into a fist and then relaxing.

You didn’t know what to say, really. You just wanted the voices to stop. If your guess was correct and they really were his thoughts, then you didn’t want to hear them.

It was a violation of privacy in the worst way.

No wonder he wanted to leave.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted. Your fingers twisted into the hem of your shorts.

His eyebrows knitted together as he regarded you.

“I should be the one saying sorry,” he mumbled, looking away. He was breathing too hard for someone who was simply standing.

“I—I meant, I can’t…I can’t help but hear your thoughts. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to,” you clarified.

“I just tried to strangle you,” Bucky said quietly. “I don’t think you should be apologizing to me.”

You stilled, remembering the feel of that metal hand around your throat, like ice. The knowledge that no matter how hard you tried, he was simply too strong for you.

And that calm feeling that swept over you when you realized that you couldn’t pry his fingers off of you.

You had reached out a hand, then. Touched his cheek. And…and he let go.

And suddenly he was himself again.

Bucky still had the red mark on his cheek where you had touched him.

“What _happened_ back there? You didn’t…” you swallowed and tried again. “You seemed pretty out of it.”

You had been about to say, _You didn’t seem human_ , but that was bound to upset him again.

He smiled humorlessly. “Can’t you just read my mind and find out?”

Again, you could hear his thoughts, jumbled and disoriented. And the dates.

Always the dates.

**October 16, 1997**

**December 1991**

“I don’t _want_ to,” you protested. “I _never_ wanted to.”

The man’s smile disappeared. “Yeah, I get that.”

A shudder passed through him then, so subtle that you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been so focused on him in the first place, shaking his shoulders and making his chest heave. He closed his eyes.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

Bucky just gave a brief jerk of his head, it could’ve been a yes or a no.

“Did you hear what I was thinking when I was—when I tried to hurt you?”

You bit your lip, thinking back on what you had heard.

“Mission. Eliminate Captain America. High priority,” you repeated slowly.

Bucky’s face twists, as if in pain.

**Steve.**

“No weapons at disposal. Target out of sight,” you continued as if you didn’t hear his thoughts.

The man at the coffee shop, his friend had called him Steve.

“And then?” he asked, though from the look on his face he didn’t want to know what happened next.

“Then you attacked me,” you said. “I heard something else, another language, I think.”

“Russian. Must’ve been.” He muttered something else under his breath, one that you couldn’t quite hear.

“Why are you asking me this?” you demanded. “You already know what happened.”

He refused to meet your eyes as he said, “I don’t.”

You blinked, trying to collect your thoughts.

“Like a…fugue state?” you tried. You’ve never met anyone who experienced them, but your psychiatrist once described them to you. What had she said?

_An altered state of consciousness. People in fugue states can walk, move about and sometimes even talk, but they’re not really aware of what they’re doing._

You’d been asking her if you’d been in a fugue state, the night of the fire.

But Bucky was already shaking his head and he was mumbling again, “No. Not, it’s not. At least, I don’t think it is.”

You blinked, trying to collect your thoughts. If it wasn’t a fugue state then what was it? You’ve heard about Captain America, had even gone to several conventions led by his fellow Avenger, Iron Man. If Bucky had been ordered to kill him then that meant…

You shivered, suddenly feeling cold. With that arm of his, you figured that he was more than capable of giving Captain America a run for his money.

Should you keep him talking? Should you call the police? Did Bucky try to kill you because he thought you were harboring Captain America in a cupboard somewhere?  
The last thought made you giggle a bit and you suddenly felt light, full of hysterical laughter.

This all felt so unreal.

Before you could say anything, Bucky was already putting on his jacket, his gloves.

“I’m sorry…about the mess. And for hurting you. You’ll be safer once I leave. I…honestly didn’t want to hurt you.” He said this all without looking at you.

You didn’t know what to say to that.

If the man wanted to kill Captain America, shouldn’t you consider it your civic duty to stall for time and then maybe call the police?

But as Bucky walked away, you could hear the voices—no, his _thoughts_ —all clamoring against one another.

This time, though, he wasn’t thinking of mission statuses or weapons or even of the man called Steve.

You heard street numbers, bus stops, addresses, plans to run to a street and then double back, making sure that nobody had followed him, dark alleys that could provide someplace to sleep for the night.

And you felt your heart squeeze.

Once again, you found yourself asking what kind of life this man must have lived, to be that paranoid.

And how deadly he actually was, if he had been ordered to kill Captain America.

“W-wait!” The word burst out of you before you could stop yourself. “Bucky. Wait. Please, I—I have some questions. Please.”

When he turned towards you, his face was free of any expression.

“The less you know, the better.”

Well, what could you say to that?

“Shit, you sound like a bad spy movie.”

Probably not your best one-liner, but Bucky looked startled, his lips curving upward in an almost-smile.

**Spy movie?**

You ignored the not-so-subtle hint that Bucky may not know about the Great James Bond and continued, “Those men. The ones who were after you last night.”

Bucky nodded to show that he was listening.

“Please don’t tell me that they were actually the police.”

“They weren’t.”

“Oh good, I wouldn’t like to think about what would happen if they uh…called the Avengers on me or something.”

**Avengers. Captain America. Steve.**

For a second, between one blink of the eye and the next, you found yourself looking down at a pale, skinny blonde, blue eyes seemingly too large for his face. He was saying something, but you couldn’t hear the words.

But then his face began to melt, his features blurring together like hot candle wax.

Then you blinked again and the image was gone, replaced by Bucky’s face. From the way the man was looking at you, you knew that it was _his_ thoughts you saw.

And he knew that you saw them.

“Anything else? I have to go.”

**Location confirmed.**

**Unit 4B. Large window in living room. Yellow curtains.**

**Smash the glass, throw in tear gas.**

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end and a sudden chill raced down your spine.

“Bucky?” Your voice came out high, thin, causing Bucky to frown at you.

“Yeah?” 

“You’re not thinking about smashing my windows are you?” For one, absurd moment, you desperately wanted it to just be Bucky, back in his fugue state or whatever it was.

But he was already shaking his head.

“No. I’m sorry about your apartment. I can help you clean up but I don’t think—”

**Now.**

“They’re going to throw tear gas!” you yelled, just as you heard the sound of shattering glass. Shards of broken glass rained upon you and your companion.

Bucky whirled around, his metal hand rising just in time to catch a small cylinder, already emitting a stream of smoke.

Then in the next breath, he threw it, hard, back into the window, the cylinder hissing all the while.

The action had been so smooth, so quick that you wondered if he’d practiced for it and how. Before you could start going down that train of thought, Bucky was in front of you, his right hand tight against your shoulder while keeping his left above the two of you as if to shield the two of you from oncoming blows.

“How many?” he said briskly.

But you were thinking of the glass and the curtains that your father had bought you.

And how disappointed he was going to be when he saw how much of a mess you’d made of the place.

“W-what? What d’you mean?” you said.

The hand holding your shoulder shook you once, twice. Your body followed limply. Your lips felt numb.

Outside, you could hear people screaming.

**Sonofabitch!**

**First attempt to subdue failed.**

There’s a leak in my mask…it fucking _burns_ …

“Listen to me,” Bucky snapped, his left hand now on your other shoulder, the grip colder and tighter than his right. “I can protect you, but I need to know how many there are. If they catch us, they’ll kill us both.”

The word ‘kill’ was like a fire that ran through your veins, igniting every nerve in your body. Suddenly, you weren’t numb at all.

You were alive, every cell in your body tingling with electricity, your fingers were jumping with energy.

It cleared the fog in your brain and at last, you were able to understand Bucky’s words.

“I can hear three,” you said. “One of them has a leak in their mask, he got hit by the tear gas.”

“There are probably more, come on.” Bucky hauled you to your feet, his grip firm but not rough. “Is there a back door here?”

“None,” you whispered.

The resigned look on his face told you all you needed to know.

“Stay behind me.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You stuck so close to the man that you could feel his body heat. If he was bothered, he didn’t complain.

**Fucking bastard threw it back!**

**Somebody help me! I’m _burning_.**

**_Shit_ , Carlos!**

You quietly relayed this to Bucky, who simply nodded in reply.

His hand gripped the doorknob, so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

**No available weapons.**

Bucky’s metal arm whirred, the sound deafening in the small space between you.

**No alternate escape routes.**

Your eyes flicked to the broken window, shards of glass still hanging off the frame.

**Ensure no harm comes to your escort.**

“Get ready to run,” he muttered. “Don’t look back.”

You were dressed in your pajamas and were wearing fluffy bunny slippers. The stupid things even had those cutesy little ears.

Bucky held up three fingers.

Three seconds.

Two.

The doorknob made a soft click as he turned it, the hinges protesting loudly as Bucky suddenly kicked the door open, bringing the street outside into view.

**He’s here!**

**She’s with the asset!**

**_Now!_ **

And your world exploded.


	7. Serendipity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you, thank you, thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read and leave their comments on this story! Seeing the comments you leave really brings a smile to my face.
> 
> Oh and by the way, we’ve reached some 250 kudos! That’s insane! Thank you all so much for your support! Here have an internet hug!
> 
> Now onto business:
> 
> Just some references for this chapter: I used several lines from an auditory hallucination simulator for this chapter, the sequence of Pi, a random word generator as well as the lyrics to Stars and Stripes Forever.
> 
> Now, onto the story! (In which the reader discovers her fight or flight instinct).

****

*****

**3.1415926535 8979323846 2643383279**

**Let martial note in triumph float. And liberty extend its mighty hand…**

**5028841971 6939937510**

**...corporate coffee futures in professional design…**

**5820974944 5923078164 0628620899**

**…corporate coffee futures in professional design…**

**And cheer them with fervid elation**

You pressed your hands to your ears, trying to drown out the flood of words that invaded your thoughts. But as always, it was no use, the voices were in your head, ghostly fingers pressing against the flesh of your brain. It was like standing amidst a crowd of people, all of them saying different things, all of them yelling in your ear.

It was too much.

You screamed, bright lights exploding across your field of vision, colors bleeding together, images too blurred to make any sense.

Still, the voices continued.

**Amusement. Insanity. Grasshopper. Extortion. Horror. Brush**

**8628034825**

**Other nations may deem their flags the best**

A light in your eyes pierced through the fog of words and for a moment, you saw with crystal-clear clarity a group of men surrounding you, guns held ready. Some were wielding flashlights to get a better aim at you.

You didn’t need to read their minds to know what they were thinking.

**3421170679**

**Condemned. One. Entombed.**

**Light ‘em up!**

The flash of a muzzle.

 **No!**

“No!”

Your vision was obscured by Bucky, who was suddenly in front of you, his arm in held in front of his face.

The pings of bullets against metal told you that it was his metal arm they were hitting.

And then he was moving, hand held out in front of him, somehow catching the bullets _with his metal hand._

**Don’t kill them.**

**Permission to kill civilians granted.**

**Hurrah for the flag of the free!**

When Bucky reached the first gunman, he grabbed the gun by the barrel and yanked it out of the man’s hands. Instead of using it to open fire on the attackers, he slammed the butt of the weapon straight onto his opponent’s neck.

The man collapsed to the ground.

With frightened yells, the gunmen scattered in different directions, their guns still trained on Bucky, though they didn’t shoot. Their expressions were tight with fear.

**8214808651**

**Coal. Criminal. Road.**

Bucky knelt down next to the fallen man, his hands quickly searching through the soldier’s pockets.

**It waves forever…**

There was a horrible, crunching sound as Bucky’s hand closed around a small gadget he found in the man’s pocket.

It was as if you’d been underwater and had someone pulled you up to the surface, the crowd of voices stopped dead and there was a moment of utter silence, like that first gasping breath when you thought that you were drowning.

And then they started up again. This time though, they were the regular voices, the voices you were used to hearing. Not that strange, terrible yelling you had been hearing a minute ago.

**Shit!**

**Mission’s been compromised!**

One of the soldiers, the one who seemed to be leader, raised her voice so that she could be heard amidst the panicking soldiers.

“Dayal, drug her!”

A soldier raised a small gun, its metal tip glinting and pointed it at you. His eyes were narrowed in concentration.

Bucky was already moving towards the man.

Fear made your throat close.

_He was going to shoot you._

You wanted to do something; run, punch, fight like Bucky was doing. Something, _anything_.

But you couldn’t even move your fingers, they felt like they had frozen solid.

You couldn’t even _scream_.

The roar of your heartbeat in your ears was drowning out all possible sound.

Bucky was yelling something at you, _Move_.

Suddenly, amidst the terror and the cold and that all-encompassing _numbness_ , a single thought cut through the haze.

How dare they?

How dare they smash your windows, throw tear gas inside your _fucking living room_ , point a gun at you?

_How dare they?_

You fear was fading away, giving way to a wave of rage and suddenly you wanted to fly at them, tear them apart with your fingernails, gouge out their eyes with your thumbs. You felt something inside you push _outward_.

And a pulse rippled out of you.

It wasn’t anything physical, there was no gust of air, no shortage of electricity to signal the pulse’s passing, but the small hairs along your arm stood on end.

The people around you, even Bucky, had gone very still, their faces drained of color.

Then as one, they collapsed to the ground.

_Nononononono_

“Bucky!” you yelled, moving to see if he was okay.

But the first step turned your legs to jelly, shifting your world out of focus. A strange ringing was filling your ears. You felt as if you were moving through water; every move was a struggle.

Blackness was creeping in the edges of your vision.

It wasn’t long before you too, collapsed onto the sidewalk, dead to the world.

****

*****

You wake up to the sound of people talking, the roar of car engines somewhere in the distance, the slam of wooden doors as they closed.

What you didn’t wake up to, however, was the voices.

It took you several seconds of dazed blinking before you started taking in your surroundings. The smell of cheap fabric conditioner stung your nose and when you looked around the room, you realized that you weren’t familiar with it at all.

That was when you shot straight up, small pinpricks of sweat already beginning to form on the back of your neck.

Where were you?

Where was Bucky?

More importantly, where were the soldiers that had broken into your apartment? Were they gone? Had the two of you been captured and this was some—

“Calm down,” you heard Bucky say and you relaxed.

If _he_ was up and talking, then at least it meant that the soldiers weren’t around or at the very least, knocked out.

Bucky was standing beside a window which had its curtains drawn, though from the looks of it, he’d just been peeking outside when you woke up.

“What happened?” you asked him. “Where did the soldiers go? Where are we?”

Finally, you asked the question that had been burning at the back of your head ever since you saw him fall unconscious on the sidewalk.

“Are you all right?”

The fact that this man, who had been able to fend off a group of soldiers, had been knocked unconscious by something that _you_ did was something you found deeply unsettling.

Bucky stilled, then quickly said, “No injuries to report.”

You blinked. “I…what? I’m not asking you to report anything.”

Color flooded his cheeks and he turned away, pretending to be very interested in something outside the window.

The line had sounded….rehearsed. Formal, even.

Had he been a soldier? It would explain his combat prowess.

But that arm…you doubted that the military issued high-tech prosthetics in the army.

Your train of thought was derailed when you saw Bucky gingerly touch his head.

“Hit your head?” you blurted out. You were thinking about how he had fallen to the concrete.

Bucky hesitated for several seconds, then said, “Yes.”

_Wow, he’s a bad liar._

You decided not to push it and instead tried grilling him on what really interested you.

“What happened? How’d we get here? Where’re the soldiers?”

“In a motel several miles away from your house. Carried you.” He was still looking at the window.

“You mean you called a cab or something?”

“No, that was too dangerous. I carried you.”

“You mean you dragged me.” You had the vivid mental image of Bucky dragging your unconscious body by the feet, the way they often showed in the movies.

“No.”

“You carried me…like a fireman?”

“Yes.”

“Several miles?”

“I said that already.”

You were tempted to call him out on this; carrying a _child_ across several miles would have exhausted anybody, even a strong man. Carrying a full-grown adult was pushing it.

There was the sound of whirring gears as Bucky dropped the curtains and your eyes were drawn back to his metal arm.

Most men didn’t have a metal arm.

A metal arm that can block _bullets_.

“Anyone I should be looking out for?” Bucky finally asked.  
It took you a second to understand what he was saying.

You listened for a second, marveling at the fact that you were actually _listening_ for the voices, and then shook your head.

“I can’t hear anything. I think…I short-circuited it somehow,” you answered. For a moment, the room seemed a little _too_ silent and you could hear Bucky’s harsh breathing, the people talking in the hallway, footsteps on the floor.

You shook your head, trying to clear it of these sounds.

Bucky let out a sigh and threaded his fingers through his hair, “That’s…”

You felt your chest tighten as you waited for the words that normally came after you talked about the voices in your head: _insane, stupid, dangerous, worrying, a worsening symptom, here this new drug should do the trick_.

“…a disadvantage,” he finished and you relaxed. “Have you got any idea when it’ll come back?”

_Hopefully never._

You shook your head. “It always comes back, though.”

If he heard the bitter note in your voice, Bucky didn’t say anything. Instead, he started looking out the window again.

You stood up from the bed and something heavy fell from your shoulders, onto the floor. When you bent down to pick it up, you saw that it was Bucky’s jacket.

“You looked cold,” he explained. Though he was clearly focused on the world outside, he was somehow aware of what you were doing.

“Thanks.” You couldn’t disagree with that, you were still wearing your thin pajamas.

And your fluffy slippers.

What the hell were you supposed to wear when you went outside?

As if he had heard your thoughts, your companion spoke up, “I woke up before the others did. I was able to pack some of your things before we left. Clothes. Money.”

His eyes tracked the floor. “I used some of it to rent this room. I figured that you wouldn’t want to wake up in some back alley.”

Guilt made his voice rougher than usual and Bucky quickly added, “I’ll pay you back.”

You made a motion halfway between a jerk and a shrug.

Between soldiers coming after you and _mind-reading_ , money wasn’t exactly on your priority list right now.

A battered blue duffel bag was sitting on top of a chest of drawers.

Bucky said that he had packed you a change of clothes. You rifled through the contents of the bag; skin was itching to get out of your sweat-stained pajamas.

You made a small noise of dismay when you realized that Bucky had packed your old jeans, those were bound to be loose after you had switched medications.

Hopefully you can find some safety pins in one of those old mason jars…

The jeans slipped between your cold fingers, sweat gathering at your palms. Blood rushed to your head at the realization that this wasn’t some weird day off, this was _real_.

You weren’t going to find any safety pins in your jars because you wouldn’t be able to go home.

Bucky had thrown the mason jars at a wall during a fit and after that, the soldiers had smashed the windows, thrown tear gas at you.

You sat back onto the bed, feeling yourself begin to tremble.

Whatever was left of your apartment was bound to have been wrecked by now.

Who knows? Maybe the soldiers even set the damn place on fire.

You hid your face in your hands.

Somewhere, in the back of your head, you could hear your father’s voice, _”Deep breaths, sweetheart, deep breaths. Just like we practiced.”_

Though you tried to suck in air through your nose, your lungs refused to fill, refused to breathe.

_You were never going home._

_”Sweetheart, are you okay?”_

“Are you okay?” Bucky asked again, giving you a little shake.

When you looked up, you saw his face in front of yours, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

You took a gulp of air and rubbed away the moisture in your eyes, feeling embarrassed at your minor breakdown.

“Just hit me, you know,” you said hoarsely. “That I can’t go back to my apartment.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened and he dropped his gaze to the floor.

“They were chasing me. I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

He was right. If you hadn’t given him a place to stay, they wouldn’t have attacked your apartment.

It would have been easy, so easy to pin this all on him.

But all you had to do was think back to the businessman and the way he had smiled. At the thought of _torturing_ someone.

“I don’t think it’s your fault that some sickos were chasing you,” you said, before you could think better of it.

Bucky looked at you in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak but you cut him off.

“But I need to know why they’re chasing you. Well…us, now really.”

You could see that he wanted to refuse but then after a moment, he nodded.

“All right. I owe you that, at least.” He sat down on the bed next to you, his right hand running along his metal one.

When he next spoke, his sentences were halting, broken. “I used to work for this…organization. I did a lot of bad stuff for them for a…a really long time. Eventually I esca—quit. I quit. And now they’re after me.”

His hand clenched around his metal limb.

You had a feeling that what Bucky said wasn’t even a tenth of the truth. For one thing, you didn’t miss the way he nearly said “escaped” before he corrected himself.

And if he really _did_ work for them, then why did you keep seeing the image of him strapped to a chair, being electrocuted?

But it was clear that he was already telling you more than what he wanted you to know. At the very least, his story contained…maybe a smidgen of truth.

You decided that maybe you needed a dose of honesty as well.

“I told you that I can read minds, right?”

A flash of blue out of the corner of your eye told you that he was looking at you.

“I found you because some guy came up to me at work. Had a picture of you.”

You felt, rather than saw, Bucky tense beside you.

“I didn’t know that I could read minds then, I thought that I was just…hearing voices. And the voices around him just sounded so hateful. So violent. It scared me. When I saw him again a day after, I looked into his eyes and I…I saw you.”

Bucky inhaled sharply. “Did I…did you see me do anything?”

“Um…more like having things done to you. You were um, sorry, held down. Getting electrocuted. You looked like you were in a lot of pain. That’s why I decided to follow. That’s why I went up to you. It looked like…” You swallowed. “Torture.”

He put a shaking hand over his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “It was obviously private.”

“N-no. Thank you. For telling me. If it weren’t for you, they might have captured me. I’m sorry, I—I need to rest. I’m tired.”

He didn’t look tired though, you thought to yourself. Maybe it was just your father’s artistic spirit possessing you or something, but you had realized how quickly his eyes would darken sometimes, when he was forced to talk about who he was.

Like there were ghosts inside his head.

He didn’t look tired, he looked _haunted_.

The bedsprings creaked as Bucky stood up and went over to the second bed in the room. He lay there, his back turned to you, without even bothering to pull the blankets over himself.

Suddenly, the idea of taking a shower and changing into your jeans felt repulsive. Whoever he was and whatever he’d done, Bucky was obviously in a lot of pain.

And he obviously didn’t want to talk about it.

You exhaled and lay back down on the bed, feeling as wide awake as ever.

Bucky had curled up into a ball and had placed his left arm over himself. Not to block out the light like some people do but almost as if to shield himself.

You remembered how you used to place pillows over your head to try and block out the voices at night.

“So, before my mom died my dad and I, we used to go camping a lot.”

Bucky stiffened at the sound of your voice.

“He’d teach me how to fish and catch tadpoles and we’d roast some marshmallows over the fire. He said that I needed to experience the great outdoors, get in some sunshine, that sort of thing.”

The sound of metal plates shifting against each other told you that Bucky was slowly lowering his arm from his face.

“But I think he used it more as an excuse, y’know? He loved painting. He’d carry some tubes, one or two brushes, and some paper and sit down and paint for hours. Dad was always worried that I’d wander off while he was painting. He used to joke that he should just put a really long leash on me.

“The thing is that since he’s always painting, he never really paid attention to his surroundings, you know? Sure he’d talk about the light hitting some leaf or how the lake looks beautiful during sunset, but he’d honestly just plop down on the ground if you let him.”

Bucky had rolled over now and you could see how his face had lost that tight, troubled look he had been wearing when you told him about what you saw.

He was clearly listening.

This was something your father used to do for you, during the nights when you couldn’t sleep because of the voices. He’d tell you whatever inane story came into his head, just to keep your mind from wandering into places you’d rather not let it go in.

Sometimes, the stories went on for so long that you honestly had to ask if he was just screwing with you.

“So this one time, my dad got it into his head that we should spend an entire weekend on some river just outside the city. Rented a wooden boat for us to fish on and everything.

“He decided to do some painting early on in the morning, while I was asleep. Wanted to paint the sunrise, he said. So he sat down on this old oak and painted the river just as the sun was rising. And he did, man, it was a really good painting. Mom had it framed and hung it in our living room.

“Only thing was, that oak he was sitting on? It was poison oak. He was wearing khaki shorts and an undershirt.”

Bucky let out a small snort of laughter, a sound that you wouldn’t have expected out of the solemn man.

“I spent the weekend trying to stop him from scratching his rashes. Eventually, I got fed up and just made him wear our old oven mitts all day,” you finished.

“Bet he paid attention to where he was sitting after that,” Bucky said.

“Nah, he just started wearing jeans. And a really thick jacket.”

That got a chuckle out of him and he finally seemed to relax.

It wasn’t the funniest story you could think of, but at least it did the trick. Somewhat.

You were just about to excuse yourself so you could take a shower when Bucky started talking again, his voice soft, even within the silent room.

“This one time, I dragged my best friend over to Coney Island. I talked him into going with me, us and a coupla dames. I…can’t remember their names but I remember this one gal that Steve was sweet on. Only problem was, she was…well, she wasn’t sweet on _him_. Got really mean about it, too.

“So I kept trying to get his mind off her, you know? Made him eat some of the food there, try the rides. Finally, I convinced him to ride the Cyclone. Well, more like _made_ him ride it, to be honest. Thought a little thrill would do him some good, take his mind off the girl.

“Anyway, my plan backfired and all that food ended up coming outta his mouth. He was sick the whole evening. I ended up taking care of him, buying him some water to wash his mouth off, candy to get rid of the taste…that sorta thing. Eventually, the girls we came with got sick of me running around looking after Steve and left. His mom gave me hell for it, too.”

It was the most he had ever said around you. But Bucky was smiling, his memories about his best friend obviously happy ones.

He rolled over again, his back once again, to you.

But this time, it really did look like he wanted to sleep, as he pulled the blankets over him.

Just as you were going to slip into the bathroom, Bucky spoke again.

“Thanks. For the story. I haven’t thought about Coney Island in a long time.”


	8. Illicit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I’m really sorry that this came out so late! It’s been such a busy month for me that I didn’t have the time to sit down and write. Much travelling and other important things. Work, another important exam, went to Intramuros, went on a hiking expedition and then finished it off with somehow getting spectacularly ill. And I use ‘spectacular’ in the sense that it somehow turned me into a koala and I ended up spending more hours asleep than awake.
> 
> BUT! Hopefully, I’ll be able to get back to my weekly updates, especially since the aforementioned exam is the last of them. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

The light stung your eyes and you had to take several seconds to adjust to the sudden brightness.

It had been two days since the soldiers had attacked your house.

Two days since you had last talked to your father.

You were pretty sure that your job at The Sweet Tooth had already been given to someone else by now. It’s not like you were a treasured employee over at the café.

But your dad…Your gut tightened at the thought of him. He must be going out of his mind with worry.

**It’s been fifteen minutes, where is that stupid taxi?**

**She forgot to buy the milk again, why did I ever marry that idiot?**

You winced and rubbed your temple, where a headache was off to a great start.

Bucky had refused to leave the relative safety of the motel room until you could start hearing the voices again. Your mind-reading was, he argued, the best way to make sure that the soldiers won’t sneak up on the two of you again.

You had been tempted to point out that they _had_ been able to sneak up on you. The soldiers had managed to surround the apartment before you even heard them.

But you figured that since Bucky was the one with combat experience, it was best to listen to him.

He walked in front of you now, his face hidden by his baseball cap, though you could tell from his posture that he was scanning the area.

“Nothing?” he muttered to you.

You paused for a moment.

**If I run now, I can make it to the subway in…**

**…really shouldn’t be doing this…**

“Nothing on the soldiers,” you said. “Now can we please get a move on?”

Bucky frowned at you but didn’t say anything.

After two days cooped up in that motel room, you were becoming a little stir-crazy.

When you had first brought up the idea of using the phone in the room, Bucky pointed out that it would take less than 30 seconds to track a caller’s location.

“Yeah but that’s for…911 and cops, right?” you had asked. “It’s not like these people had _that_ kind of access.”

Chills had raced down your spine when Bucky didn’t reply. You had decided to wait until you could get to a payphone.

Standing now, with the sun feeling warm against your cheeks, you mentally added getting some coffee that didn’t taste like the crap they served at the motel.

**So if I get a 98 on the next test…**

**Got two more followers! Which filter should I use?**

You spotted a pay phone not far away from the motel and pointed it out to Bucky.

“Wait here, I’m going to call my dad,” you said, already half-walking in the phone’s direction.

His hand clamped down on your shoulder and you felt a momentary jolt of panic before you realized that it was his flesh hand he was using to hold you.

You may or may not have squeaked.

“Wait. It’s too near where we’re staying,” Bucky said. “Give it a bit of distance.”

You eyed him nervously. “What would you classify as ‘a bit of distance’?”

****

*****

By the time Bucky let you use a payphone, you were sweaty, out of breath and your stomach was making dying whale noises.

Your companion, of course, wasn’t even breathing hard. 

Bucky had refused the prospect of splitting up or waiting for you somewhere out of sight. He was, however, waiting a respectful distance away from the booth, obviously wanting to give you your privacy.

Your father picked up on the first ring.

“Hello? Who is this?” he asked. His voice was reed-thin, the way it always got when he was worried or scared.

“Dad? Are you okay?”

You weren’t expecting the sob of relief that came through the phone.

“Dad?”

“Oh thank God, thank God you’re safe. Where are you, sweetheart? Did you have an episode? It was an episode, right? I—I…can you tell me where you are? If you don’t, just turn on your cell phone’s GPS and we’ll get you. You’re not hurt, are you, sweetheart?”

Your father’s frantic words mixed in with the voices— _thoughts_ —of passers-by.

**Milk stock’s full, need to sell the loaves in the back**

**Please just some spare change.**

“W-what? Dad, I’m fine. I’m okay. Not a scratch on me,” you soothed.

A brief flutter of air that told you that he just sighed. In relief, most likely.

“Okay. That’s good. That’s…good. I thought you were hurt. Where are you? I’m at our house right now and we can pick you up.”

You paused. “Why would you think I had an episode, Dad?”

He let out a shaky laugh, a sound that was absolutely without humor. “Have you seen the news, sweetheart?”

“Uhm. No.”

The television in the motel showed only a cooking channel and infomercials.

You had stopped trying to fiddle with the antenna after you got shocked. You were uncomfortably aware of the fact that Bucky staring at you through the glass of the booth.

“That’s good. I’m glad you didn’t get to see that. Somebody broke in your apartment, sweetheart. It looked terrible. But that’s…okay. That’s fine. The important thing is that you’re safe. Where are you? Are you at Amanda’s?”

“Dad—” You feel a weight in your chest cut off your words. It wasn’t fine. You couldn’t go back. Not with those soldiers after the two of you now.

**Hate this song, next!**

**Sonofabitch! Where the hell did he get his license from, a cereal box?**

Even now, you could be endangering your father, just by calling him. You had to make this quick.

“Dad, I can’t go back. Not right now. I have…stuff to do.”

No reply.

You could hear his breathing so you were sure that he didn’t hang up.

“Dad?”

“Is…this about the medicine?” he asked. “Is it making it hard for you? That’s all right, we can ask your therapist for new ones. Remember the ones that made you so upset because you gained so much weight? All we had to do is ask for new ones.”

Again, that terrible, empty laugh.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Bucky walking towards the booth.

When your father next spoke, his voice was thick with tears. “They said…the news said that you were harboring a—a criminal. You wouldn’t do that, would you, sweetheart?”

“A criminal? No, Dad, listen—”

“A terrorist! The Winter Soldier, that’s what they called him on the news. You remember those shootings in Washington? He was the one who did it. Is he—is he with you now? Does he want…ransom? Did he threaten you?”

It was becoming hard to breathe now. Your breath came out in short, ragged gasps. The raw pain in your father’s voice made you feel as if you were choking.

“They were torturing him, Dad!”

The silence that followed was long enough that your mind was filled with other people’s thoughts.

**So I told Jessica that I’ll meet her at 6.**

**Shouldn’t have hit snooze!**

**Will she like roses?**

“Was it the voices?”

You jolted, feeling goose bumps erupt along your arms. How could he have—?

For a moment, you thought he knew about the mind-reading, what you saw inside the businessman’s head. But then your father started talking again and that particular thought was chased away.

“Did the voices…tell you he was being tortured? Is that…is that what you think? No, sweetheart, no. He’s a terrorist. He’s _killed_ people. Did they tell you to help him?”

It was your therapist all over again, that thick, sad way they look at you, the same way they’d look at an abused puppy. _You poor thing_.

And the pills, _always the pills._

You knew that it was for your own good. But there was no way you could mistake their looks for anything other than what it was: pity. Something to be fixed. A burden to be borne.

Your father continued to talk in the background.

“I can get you a lawyer. It shouldn’t be that hard, we’ve got records to back it up. We can tell them that you have a…that this man coerced you to do it.”

The glass door to the slid open and suddenly, Bucky was there, filling the tiny booth with his presence.

He made a quick gesture with his hand, _give it to me_.

“ _What?_ ”

“Give the phone to me. I’ll talk to him.”

You shook your head frantically. If anything, Bucky would only make it worse.

“I can get a mortgage on the house. And I don’t _really_ need a car, I work from home!”

That did it, you all but thrust the phone into Bucky’s hand—his metal hand—and exited the booth.

You could hear Bucky talking in a low voice to your father, but you didn’t want to hear it. Instead, you closed your eyes and let the voices wash over you.

Listen to other people’s problems for once.

**…didn’t even include it in the reading materials!**

**I might have to drop this subject.**

**John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt. His name is my name too!**

“Hey.”

When you opened your eyes, you saw Bucky staring down at you.

And for a second, he was too close, too there and suddenly your head was filled with his voices.

It wasn’t sentences so much as fragments. Words that seemed to have no meaning on their own: **Going to call the police—take you away. LOCK YOU UP. Cage. Chair. Arm. HURT. Rust. Sputnik. HYDRA. CRYO. NONONONONO. Not gonna happen. RUN.**

You took a step back from him, trying not let your thoughts show on your face.

What the hell?

“Are you okay?” he asked. 

Instead of answering, you asked back, “What did you tell my father?”

Bucky looked over his shoulder nervously.

“Not here,” he muttered.

“I think I saw a café a few blocks from here.”

You could see already see the refusal on his face before he even opened his mouth so you hastened to say, “Please? I’ve been drinking that caffeinated dishwater they served at the motel for two days now. Any longer and I just might drop dead.”

Bucky’s expression softened and once again, he looked over his shoulder.

“Are you sure you can hear them?”

**Too much salt in the eggs.**

**Have to rotate the tires, pay insurance…**

**Where did I put that list?**

You smiled tightly. “Loud and clear.”

****

*****

“So, you have heightened senses,” you said nonchalantly.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at you. “Did you read that one from my mind?”

“Uh no. I read that one from the fact that you heard a conversation from a closed phone booth _several meters away_.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

You grinned and raised your hands in mock surrender. “Story of my life.”

Enhanced senses. Mind-reading. Super-secret spy groups.

You tucked it away all in the back of your head for later perusal. Maybe with some screaming and crying.

But the smile soon slid off your face and you leaned in closer, shoulders hunching together as if to shield the conversation from prying eyes.

“Don’t do that,” Bucky instructed. “You look like you’ve got something to hide. Sit straighter, relax your shoulders.” He surveyed your posture for several moments then nodded in approval.

The sudden espionage lesson startled you and you blurted out before you could even think about it, “Wow, you _really_ don’t like public places, do you?”

He pursed his lips and said, “I think…I think I used to.”

Uh…what did that mean? He thought he used to?

**Christ, that couple always was a stingy tipper.**

**…shouldn’t have met up with her here.**

**It costs how much for a pancake?**

“Okay, what did you tell my father? You heard what we were talking about, I assume.”

Your gut twisted at the thought of your supposed-to-be-private conversation with your father laid out for Bucky to hear. Did he think that your family was dysfunctional? That you really were crazy?

God, is this what Bucky felt like? Knowing that you could read his thoughts if you got too close? That was even more private than a conversation over the phone. You had the sudden urge to apologize all over again.

“He thought that you were a criminal. Or that you were becoming one,” Bucky explained.

You winced, hearing your father’s words all over again. _Was it the voices? Did the voices tell you to help him?_

“Yeah, I kinda caught that one.”

“So I told him the one thing that would make him think that you aren’t.”

You blinked. What did he mean by that?

**He said he’d be here by now!**

**Twenty-five dollars! Wow, I hope she comes back here again.**

All around you, the café seemed to come alive. People chatting with each other, the ring of the bell above the door to indicate a customer, the _ping_ of the cash register.

The one thing that would make your father think that you weren’t a criminal?

Your father already thought that you were crazy. But he had also thought that you were innocent, at least, as far as crazies go. He had been willing to believe that the voices were making you do it.

What could Bucky have told your father that would make him think that you were innocent? That something else was making you help him?

Your jaw dropped.

“You told him that you kidnapped me,” you stated, struggling to keep your voice low.

Bucky looked away. “I told him that you weren’t exactly coming with me out of your own free will.”

“You lied to my dad?”

“It’s not a lie. Not exactly. Neither of us is here because we want to be.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from retorting that you did want to be in the coffee shop, mostly because you wanted to get away from the motel but decided that Bucky probably wouldn’t appreciate the comment.

“But you didn’t kidnap me,” you protested. “In fact, you saved my life. Twice.”

“You only needed saving because you helped me,” Bucky muttered.

“But—”

“Thank you for waiting, here’s your pancakes and your coffee!” the waiter sang as he set down your plates. He seemed unusually chipper for a waiter. You silently chalked it up to the twenty-five dollar tip he just received.

Just the smell of chocolate made your mouth water but the sensation was dampened when you saw the suspicious glance that Bucky shot the waiter.

**Hope they’re also good tippers.**

“He’s clean,” you said hurriedly as the other man walked away. “Mostly he’s just banking on us giving him an extra twenty-five dollars.”

“Okay.”

You held the cup to your nose and inhaled deeply, though you hadn’t lied to Bucky when you told him you missed decent coffee, you had ordered hot chocolate, remembering the way your dad used to make it for you on Sundays.

After your conversation with him, you needed that memory more than ever.

Though you had promised yourself that you’d give your companion the privacy that he so obviously wanted, some of Bucky’s habits were too strange to ignore.

The way he ate or drank something for instance.

He would stir or shake his drink, it didn’t matter if it was water or coffee, like the one he ordered today. Then he’d take a sip and hold it in his mouth a little while before swallowing.

You watched as he did the same strange ritual with his waffles, cutting off a piece at the corners and taking a small bite of each.

“I’m checking for poison,” he said, without looking up from his plate. “I’ve noticed you staring since yesterday.”

You took a sip of hot chocolate to hide the color that was spreading across your cheeks. It burned all the way down.

“Do you honestly think that someone’s going to try and poison us?” you asked disbelievingly.

He shrugged in a way that said “better safe than sorry”.

“That’s one approach. And chemicals don’t have minds that you can read.”

“You tell me this after I’ve been eating my food without checking?” You looked down at your pancakes, watching the butter at the top begin to melt. “Now you’ve got me paranoid.”

Bucky grimaced. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I told your dad I’d get you home safe.”

**Is she actually going to pay in quarters?**

**…promises you can’t keep…**

**Not here please—**

“Yeah, and then he gets me locked up again, this time for Stockholm Syndrome,” you muttered. A portion of the conversation suddenly came back to you.

You looked back up at Bucky, who was studying you. The two of you spoke at the same time.

“You were locked up—?”

“He called you the Winter Soldier…”

Bucky paled and pushed his plate away, though he had eaten less than half of his food.

He already seemed to have forgotten about his question about you, something that you were grateful for. That wasn’t a topic you wanted to talk about, at least not yet.

“So…it’s true? That you’re the Winter Soldier?”

The man seemed to be looking everywhere but you. His metal hand was gripping his fork tightly, you could actually see the utensil beginning to bend.

**Lie. She’ll turn you in.**

**What’s happening with the world today?**

**Just enough time for some coffee and…**

Bucky leaned back and closed his eyes, exhaled deeply.

After a moment, he seemed to have made a decision.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” he said softly.

You remained quiet.

“Yes. I’m the Winter Soldier. I…did a lot of terrible things and—” He let out his breath and tried again. “A _lot_ of terrible things. More than I could—I could hope to atone for. If the police catch me…if they _kill_ me…it probably wouldn’t be for the worst.”

You stared at him. He was rubbing his closed eyes. You noticed dark circles underneath them. He had left his hair unbrushed, though he would sometimes run a hand through it when he was thinking.

His lips were moving silently. Bucky looked so hopeless like that, so beaten, like a man praying to a god he long stopped believing in.

He continued, “But if _they_ catch me, the ones who’re chasing after us. That’d be…really bad. They’d make me…do those things all over again. I can’t let that happen.”

When he let go of the fork, the utensil was bent in a near-perfect 90-degree angle. It didn’t take much to imagine him killing a man with that kind of strength.

“If I could leave you so you can get back to your life, I would. But they already found out where you live. If they find you…”

“They’d torture me for information about you?” you supplied.

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Heard that in their heads?”

“No, just watch a lot of spy movies. Funny thing is, your first name is also James.”

Bucky looked puzzled. “There’s a spy called James?”

“Bond. James Bond. Remind me to tell you about him sometime. And don’t knock it. Somewhere out there, there’s a file about an assassin whose name is Bucky.”

He smiled at you, “Fair enough.”

You ate in silence, absorbing what Bucky had just told you. If what he said was true, if you continued to aid him, would you be doing good by helping him stay out of…HYDRA’s hands, whatever HYDRA was?

Even if it meant helping a murderer? A torturer? Someone who, in his own words, done more bad deeds than he could atone for?

Was he a contract killer then? Someone who killed in cold blood if the price was high enough? Then why the chair? Why the torture?

Based on what you’d heard in the soldiers’ heads, Bucky didn’t seem like some pampered pet to a mob boss. In fact, they seemed to hate him as much as they feared him.

You remembered the night he had tried to strangle you and added a new question to your list.

What did they do to him that damaged him so much that he was having some sort of…breakdown?

Would it happen again?

A small, nasty voice in your head asked the question you’d been avoiding, _Would you be able to stop him next time?_

****

*****

“So, uh…hey, Buck. I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

The man looked up from his seat on the bed, where he had been studying a map, trying to figure out where the two of you should go next.

“Yeah?”

You held up the duffel bag. Bucky had been surprisingly efficient packing things you might need, comfortable shirts and jeans, an extra pair of socks, a jacket. He’d even managed to pack you a box of tampons, which you found quite thoughtful of him.

However, when you had started repacking your things again, you noticed that something was missing.

“Did you erm…pack my phone by any chance?”

His eyebrows drew together and he glanced at the motel’s telephone that he’d been so against in using.

“You don’t have a phone,” he stated. “I didn’t see one, anyway.”

“Uh…yeah. I do. I left it charging on my nightstand. I mean, I shouldn’t be complaining but…”

Bucky closed the atlas he’d been reading to stare at you. Once again, you caught him staring at the phone on the nightstand.

“Not a landline,” you explained hastily. “A _cell_ phone. You know…a portable phone? Small gadget? I thought maybe I could check Google maps and…” You trailed off as Bucky’s expression seemed to get even more confused.

“You don’t know what a cellphone is?” you asked, your voice coming out several octaves higher.

Not knowing James Bond, sure.

The Godfather, _maybe_ , if one was morally offended by good movies.

But who doesn’t know what a cellphone is?

Cults, maybe?

You had the sudden mental image of Bucky dressed in an old spun robe dancing around a campfire and had to bite down your lip to keep from laughing.

Said subject of your thoughts was watching you with an annoyed expression.

“You can laugh.”

You let out a small giggle and stifled the rest; nobody liked being made fun of.

“Sorry, sorry,” you said, trying hard to keep your voice steady. “Just had this thought of…never mind. How come you don’t know what a cell phone is? The…organization didn’t let you have one?”

**Didn’t let me have much of anything.**

**Wasn’t even asleep when—**

“No.”

The bitterness in his tone made it clear that he didn’t want to talk about it. You felt your amusement sizzle away into nothing, remembering all the time other people had laughed at _you_ for your illness.

“Sorry,” you said, this time without a trace of mirth.

“It’s fine.”

He opened the atlas and began studying it again, his hair obscuring his face. A “go away” message if you ever saw one.

It was hard not to make some excuse and maybe leaving the motel room for a couple of hour. Maybe come back when Bucky was in a better mood. Or even asleep.

But instead, you set down your duffel bag and took one step. And another. Then another.

You sat down on Bucky’s bed, just far enough from him that he could scoot away if he wanted to.

He didn’t move. He didn’t look up from his atlas either, though you felt sure that he was watching you.

**What—**

“Hey,” you said gently.

No answer. At least he didn’t tell you to go away.

“If I get my phone back or something like it, I could teach you how to use it. If you want.”

When Bucky looked at you, you were relieved to see that he wasn’t scowling at you or anything like that. If anything, he looked a bit more relaxed than he had been a few minutes ago.

“I’d like that.”

You breathed a silent sigh of relief and adjusted your seat on the bed so that you were more comfortable, “Well. Uhm. Good. You’ve been studying that thing for nearly an hour now. Wanna watch some TV?”

“Okay.”

You grabbed the remote and started flicking through channels, trying to find something good to watch. Sadly, though, it was all just infomercials and some lady espousing the fifteen magical qualities of kale or something.

“Nothing good tonight,” you complained.

“Not unless you want to learn how to make a salad.”

You turned off the television, feeling somewhat disappointed. Even your old apartment had HBO. You used to play it every time you came home from work, just to make the place seem a little bit livelier.

After a minute of staring at the empty screen, you caught Bucky’s eye and he smiled at you for the second time that day. It seemed to you that he did that too rarely.

This time, he was the first to start.

“This one time, Mr. Rogers took Steve and I fishing…”


	9. Supine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was unexpectedly, ridiculously long. Hope y’all like it. And thanks so much to everyone who’s been commenting so far, your comments really mean a lot to me and do a lot to keep me going especially when I’m writing a seventeen page monster in the space of two days. I was very excited to write this chapter because it signified the next arc, but that doesn’t mean that writing this was any easier, so thank you so much to those who take the time to comment! I just want you to know, I’m writing for YOU! ~~By the way, I’m also blaming you if my fingers happen to fall off while my eyes start bleeding after all that typing I did. I swear I can’t feel the pads of my fingers now.~~

****

*****

You watched the empty street nervously, sure that any moment, one of the neighbors would pull back the curtains ad see you or a dog would start barking or a kid sneaking out of curfew would decide to hide in the bushes you were hiding in.

Bucky never told you how stressful espionage can be.

“Done yet?” you asked the man out of the corner of your mouth.

“I just started.”

You could hear the scrape of metal against metal and a quick glance told you that Bucky was picking the locks.

After several weeks of sleeping in rundown motels and the occasional alley, you and Bucky had finally agreed to try breaking in an empty house.

You had spent most of yesterday in a park, sifting through people’s thoughts and trying to find out who wouldn’t be using their homes for a night.

It had taken you nearly five hours before you actually found something. A father who had a wife and two kids was thinking about the sort of snack food he should bring on the family road trip.

When you told Bucky this, he decided to follow the man to the grocery store and later came back with the report that the man had purchased enough food to last four people nearly three days, maybe more.

“We’ll stay two days,” he had decided.

“Did you find out where he lives?”

“Yes. Picked his wallet, saw his driver’s license.”

“I put it back,” Bucky had assured you when you opened your mouth to protest.

“Great, so we didn’t rob him. We’re just gonna squat in his empty house.”

The sound of the door hinges creaking pulled you quickly back to the present and you saw that Bucky had finished picking the locks.

“Also had a deadbolt,” he explained. “Would have finished faster without it.”

“What about alarm systems?”

Bucky shrugged and raised his metal hand. “Built-in sensors disable things like that.”

**Held me down while they installed it, too. Hurt like a motherfucker. _No, don’t think about things like that—_**

He suddenly cleared his throat and gestured to the door, which he was holding open for you.

You stared at him.

“Are…you okay?”

The two of you rarely passed through isolated, open places—Bucky had stated that this made it easier to overwhelm somebody and you weren’t going to argue with him—and because of that, you rarely heard his thoughts.

Which was something that struck you just fine, considering how private a man Bucky was, it probably chafed him to be around…well, around you.

“I’m fine.”

You were beginning to think that “fine” in Bucky-speak actually meant “I don’t want to talk about it”.

But you decided that if he didn’t want to talk about it, you weren’t going to push the issue. 

“Okay,” you said quietly.

You went on ahead and entered the house, sending a silent apology to the family. A month ago the idea of squatting in somebody else’s house never would have occurred to you.

Maybe you could leave some cash in the master bedroom? Judging by the interior of the building, though, the owners probably wouldn’t need it, if the giant, flat-screen television or the paintings that were probably worth more than you’ve ever made in your life were anything to go by.

You heard the door shut behind you and Bucky entered the house, carrying your duffel bag in one hand and his backpack in another.

That was another thing you noticed about the man, no matter how exhausted he was, Bucky always made it a point to be a gentleman to you, holding open doors, carrying your bag, that sort of thing. When you had asked him about it, Bucky had shrugged and said he’d hoped morals hadn’t changed _that_ much. He had even smiled when you said he sounded like an old man.

He didn’t look like he was going to smile now, though, his face was grim as he set the bags down on the sofa and started going around the house.

You could hear snatches of his thoughts as he passed you by.

**Too many possible points of entry in the living room.**

**…hallway looks defensible…**

By now, the two of you had settled into a sort of routine. So while Bucky scoped out the house’s potential as a military bunker, you quietly gathered the dirty clothes from both of your bags so that you could wash them.

Surely a house this big would have a laundry room, right? Not that you were complaining, but it would be nice not to have to hand wash jeans for once.

The bundle of clothes in your arms, you started opening doors, hoping that one of them would lead to a laundry room.

A spacious master bedroom, where you saw Bucky cautiously drawing the curtains closed.

A playroom with dozens of stuffed animals and Legos scattered across the floor.

Someone’s office, all dark wood furniture, and a plush swiveling chair. Whoever worked here had left their iPad charging next to the printer. After a moment’s hesitation, you took the iPad with you, making a mental note to return it to the office before you left.

It was only on the fourth door did you find a staircase leading down to the basement. Even from your position atop the stairs, you could see the glint of two washing machines.

If you weren’t already on the run from a crazy organization, you would’ve suspected that a masked, machete-wielding murderer was lurking in the shadows.

You loaded up the clothes and, while the machine was running, you brought up your father’s Facebook account.

A smiling picture of you had been pinned to the top of his timeline. A few thousand likes, a hundred shares and some two hundred comments.

What Bucky had told your father was smart, sure. It made you look blameless in the eyes of your father, even innocent. But it cast Bucky in a bad light, and if the police weren’t involved in it yet, they sure would be now.

And how would your dad be holding up, knowing that you are currently being held hostage by someone he believes to be evil?

Your eyes felt hot as you skimmed through the caption, certain that you would start crying the moment that you read the whole thing through.

Words like _loving daughter, miss her_ and _many, sleepless nights_ flew past your vision, and you felt something hot drip down your cheeks as you read the final sentence, _I can only pray for the Winter Soldier not to harm my daughter, the only family I have left and that she—_

**Gone—**

**She’s been taken. Why didn’t you check…**

**_Promised yourself she’d be safe_ —**

“Bucky?” You raised your voice so that you could be heard from upstairs. “I’m down here.”

The frantic thoughts immediately stilled and you could almost hear the sigh of relief he must’ve breathed when he realized that you were okay.

You heard heavy footsteps as Bucky made his way down the staircase and immediately scrubbed your face, trying to get rid of the track marks your tears had left.

Still, something in your face must have given you away, because Bucky took one look at you and asked, “You okay?”

“I’m fi—” The lump in your throat made it hard for you to speak. 

You were _not_ fine, you had lost your apartment and most of your possessions, you were on the run from a military organization and to top it all off, your father thought that you were being held hostage by the man who was currently doing his best to keep you alive.

You were most certainly _not_ fine.

You swallowed hard and tried again, “I was looking at my father’s Facebook account. He had a picture of me on his Timeline…” You looked down at the picture again.

The picture had been taken years ago, one of the few camping trips the two of you had taken after your mother died. Even back then, you could already feel your mother’s ghost haunting you.

There were no hidden notes left inside your bags, no extra roll of film tucked into the bag. The food that the two of you had brought came from a local 7-11.

It never really felt right, cooking in the kitchen after her death.

You could almost see your mother’s ghost, a gray, faded thing that fluttered amongst the cupboards, tutting over a recipe book as she wrote in the margins.

You were so lost in your own memories that you didn’t realize that Bucky was beside you until you felt his warm hand on your shoulder.

He was staring at the screen, his face lit by the glow of the iPad and his lips moving silently as he read the words your father had written.

“It mentions you,” you said apologetically. “Not in a very good way, sorry.”

Bucky smiled dryly at you. “Wouldn’t expect your da to say nice things about the man who kidnapped his daughter.”

“Well, yeah. But you don’t deserve to have those things said about you. You’re only covering for me.”

Bucky jerked back as if you had slapped him, all the color draining from his face. Over the sound of the washing machines spinning, you could hear his metal arm whirr.

He didn’t breathe so much as wheeze.

“Bucky?”

The words hit you like a train, pushing out your own thoughts, replacing them with angry, hateful _things_ that didn’t belong to you at all.

**HYDRA dog.**

**\--would’ve been better off if the fall—**

**Don’t deserve… Christ if only she knew—**

**If she knew, she wouldn’t be here.**

**_God, the things I’ve done_ —**

“Bucky!” you gasped, managing to break away from his thoughts and grab his arm.

The iPad clattered to the floor.

A sudden jolt of fear ran through you when you realized that you had grabbed his metal arm. You let go.

“Are you okay?” you asked, this time grasping him by the shoulders.

He jerked away from you as your touch burned, backing away until his back hit the wall.

“Bucky?” you said for the third time. You didn’t try to reach out to him this time.

“Did you—” He stopped, licked his lips like he was nervous. “Did you hear that just now?”

Your face burned with shame.

Whatever Bucky was thinking, it was obviously private, something he wanted to keep hidden. Sometimes you thought that there were things in Bucky’s head that he wanted to hide from _himself_.

Maybe he did. Either way, it certainly wasn’t your place to go sifting around in his head.

God, how could the man _stand_ you?

“I’m sorry,” you said in a small voice.

“I know. And I know you don’t mean it.” He was trying to be kind, though his voice still shook, maybe at the notion of his thoughts being ransacked.

“My…mother,” you began. “She died when I was young.”

Bucky stared at you and this time, you didn’t need to hear it to know what he was thinking.

“What?”

“She was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. It was…much worse for her. Most of the old drugs were really powerful and back then, the only treatment most people came up with was ‘lock them up in a room and hope they get better’. Makes me wonder if she’s the same as…the same as me. If she could read minds and people thought that she was crazy.”

You didn’t really know why it was your mother you decided to talk about. It always felt like it was more your father’s tragedy than it was yours.

Her death had hollowed him out as if a part of him had died with her and you were left with just a shell of your best friend.

You? Well, at the time, you had been angry at her. _Furious_ , in fact. You were already showing signs of auditory hallucinations and the only person in the world who could understand you decided to take the easy way out and leave you all alone.

Not only that, she had taken your best friend along with her.

Your father rarely smiled after the funeral.

It made you wonder now if you had never met Bucky: would that have been your fate, too? Days upon days of white rooms, sterile air and nurses whose fake-ass smiles never really disguised their pity.

“I’m sorry, that must’ve been rough,” Bucky said awkwardly. “But why are you telling me this?”

You shrugged. “I figured that since I kept hearing things you don’t want to talk about, it’s only fair that you hear things I don’t want to talk about.”

You watched him, wondering how he’d react to such a strange proclamation. His brows were furrowed and he was frowning, not looking at you so much as through you.

Certainly, it made things awkward, but it was the only thing you could think of that put the two of you on even ground. Or maybe he would just suggest that the two of you should go on separate ways from now on. Your gut tightened at the thought.

But Bucky suddenly smiled and his brow cleared. When he reached out for you with his metal hand, you didn’t flinch away.

You were, however, surprised when he used it to ruffled your hair.

“You’ve got a weird way of saying sorry, kid.”

****

*****

Bucky’s chuckle jolted you out of the sleepy haze that you were beginning to slip into.

“Cute dog,” he said, reaching forward and taking some more popcorn from the bowl.

“Huhm…what?” You rubbed your eyes, trying to bring the world back into focus.

“My name is Dug. I have just met you but I love you!” the dog on the screen said.

“Liking the movie so far?” you asked, stifling a yawn and stretching. After you had finished washing the clothes, you had invited Bucky to watch a movie in the living room. Either the children who lived there were on the young side or the parents really liked Pixar since most of the DVDs were animated films.

After a moment of indecisiveness between Wall-E and Up, you decided on the latter, figuring that both of you could use a bit of cheer—unless you counted the first five minutes of the movie.

“Did you fall asleep?” he asked.

You nodded, not even bothering to give a verbal answer.

“Third door on the left in the hallway leads to a guest bedroom,” Bucky offered. “You could stay there for the night.”

“Thanks but I think I’ll finish this, it’s a nice movie,” you mumbled, already beginning to feel sleepy again.

You continued to watch the movie in companionable silence, every now and again commenting on a particularly funny scene. Considering that you were tucked underneath a stolen blanket, eating food meant for somebody else and squatting in a house whose owners had gone on holiday, you were pretty sure that you weren’t supposed to feel this content.

But you were warm, your belly was full of homemade lasagna and you were watching a funny movie. The whole thing made the notion of HYDRA, your father and being on the run seem like a distant dream, something that would fade away once you woke up.

You could almost believe that you were back in your apartment, watching a movie with a friend. Bucky’s arm was tucked around you, a friendly gesture as it was practical, because even though you were already bundled up in blankets, you mentioned that you were still feeling cold.

It was Bucky who broke the silence between you, shifting uncomfortably as he did so.

“That thing you were using earlier…” he began.

“The iPad?”

“Yeah, that. You mentioned that you were using it to research things?”

“Google maps.”

“You can use it to look at…other things, right?”

The question struck you as odd and you pulled enough of a distance away so you could stare at him.

“What, like porn?”

Bucky let out a startled laugh, one that didn’t manage to hide the red in his cheeks.

“No, why would you—oh, never mind. I wanted to ask if you could help me research something.”

“And it doesn’t involve naked women?”

“Sorry to disappoint, kid, the research mostly involves men.”

“So…naked men?”

“Not unless Stevie’s been up to some really weird things that I haven’t heard about, no.”

You recognized the name, Steve was Bucky’s best friend, the one who featured so prominently in his stories. If you remembered right, the man was an asthmatic, allergic to just about everything and had just as much bad luck with women as you did with everyone else.

You could see why Bucky would like to check up on him.

“So you want me to research Steve…uhm…Rogers? Is that it?”

“Close, but no. Actually, I wanted to look up something called the Howling Commandos.”

You remembered hearing something like that in a history class once; a military group, maybe? Something from World War II?

“All right, we can search it up tomorrow.”

You felt rather than heard Bucky’s sigh of relief, his chest rising and falling as he breathed. “I’d appreciate that.”

The two of you continued to watch the movie, though you could see that Bucky was no longer paying attention to it. He was frowning, flexing his metal fingers slowly like he was studying them.

**Still hurts sometimes**

**\---Dugan and Jones and—**

**Did Jim ever marry get together with…**

**Are they all dead?**

“Bucky?” you whispered, not wanting to break his train of thoughts, but also not wanting to hear more.

He gave a sort of grunt to signal he was listening.

“Is there—”

“Not now. Please.” His voice came out hoarser than it had been a minute ago. “Maybe someday but I…no, not now.”

“Okay.” You wrapped your blanket tighter around yourself. “Sorry.”

“Nah.” You felt his arm tighten around you in a brief hug. “Think we’re past the point where we’d have to apologize to each other for every little thing, sweetheart.”

The smile on your face felt like it was about to split your head, and you pulled the blanket up to your nose so that Bucky couldn’t see it. Somehow, his words warmed you in a way your cover did not.

“So I’m ‘sweetheart’ now, am I? You called me kid just a few hours ago.”

“Well, what d’ya want to be called?”

After a moment of thought, you decided, “Batman.”

“Who?”

“Don’t you dare tell me you don’t know Batman,” you whispered furiously, causing Bucky to laugh.

“Can’t say I’ve hearda him, he famous?”

“You’re crazier than I am,” you accused.

When Bucky didn’t disagree, you decided to bring up something that was rattling around in your head since he mentioned the Howling Commandoes.

“If you want,” you said, nudging him in the arm to get his attention. “We can print out what we’ve researched about the Howling Commandoes. So you can take it with you after we leave here.”

“Yeah. That’d…that’d be nice…” he murmured.

“Tomorrow, then,” you decided.

“Tomorrow.”

****

*****

You were falling.

The cold blue sky blazed above you, so bright it hurt to look at. You reach out a hand towards it, but your fingers only clutched at empty air.

It hits something, your arm and pain bursts at your elbow, so intense that you could have sworn you saw stars.

The wind was howling in your ears, a man was shouting. You can’t make out the words, but you were sure that he was calling for you. The pain was making it hard for you to think.

Your vision spun. You see red, your blood flying away from the gash in your arm—and _Jesus Christ it hurts like hell._

You see white, the ground blanketed with so much snow that it looked like clouds.

You woke up before you ever hit the ground.

The lights were still on, the movie had ended and it had reverted to the menu screen.

Beside you, Bucky groaned.

When you looked over at him, you saw that he was still his asleep, his eyelids fluttering.

You were just about to turn the TV off when he let out a soft, pained moan and rolled over on the couch.

That was when you _really_ looked at him.

Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, the dark blue shirt he was wearing plastered to his skin.

You could feel the heat he was giving off, even though you weren’t exactly touching; he must have been scorching. His eyes were frantically moving behind closed lids.

“Bucky?” you whispered, gently shaking him.

He mumbled something and you heard the distinct sound of his metal arm whirling.

Oh, shit. You scrambled backward, getting as far away from him as the sofa would allow.

“Bucky!” you called, louder this time when you were safely out of strangulation-distance. You were sitting on one of the armrests, ready to leap at the slightest provocation.

When that didn’t wake him, you tried again, “Hey—”

**_You saw a crowd of people, waving to a couple inside a convertible. Men in police motorcycles are flanking the vehicle. Four people in the convertible. Two females, two males. A female in pink. A man in a suit, seated in the backseat, smiling at the crowd. That man was your target._ **

**_A woman, the barrel of a gun pressed into the flesh of her forehead. Her eyes were filled with tears. She was begging. You pull the trigger._ **

**_“Howard!”_ **

“BUCKY!” you screamed. You don’t remember crawling on top of him to yell in his face, and right then, you didn’t care. You smacked him hard across the chest, willing him to wake up.

The man’s eyes snapped open, pupils contracting at the sudden light and you felt yourself rise slightly as he took a deep breath.

He raised his left hand and you were off him, trying to pretend that the sight of it didn’t make your skin crawl. To cover it up, you turned off the TV and ejected the DVD. You turned back to him, trying to fake a casual air.

Only to stop when you realized he had raised his hand to his mouth as if—

Bucky rolled over, hit the floor on all fours and vomited all over the carpet.

The smell hit you, a bitter stench that reminded you all too much of hospitals. Your stomach rolled, but you pushed past it to kneel next to Bucky.

When you put a hand on his shoulder, you realized that for the first time since you met him, Bucky felt tiny. He had a metal arm that could block bullets, enough military experience to take down several armed soldiers and he felt tiny. His entire body was shaking as he dry-heaved into the carpet.

You gently rubbed his shoulders, trying to soothe him.

“I’ll get you a glass of water and something to wipe your face with, okay?”

Without waiting for him to reply, you head on over toward the bathroom, grabbing one of the decorative towels and turning on one of the faucets, waiting for the water to heat up.

You didn’t think that people had these things outside of hotels.

When the water was sufficiently hot, you soaked the towel and wrung it out, and snagged a bottle of water from the fridge.

However, when you came back to Bucky, who was now sitting on the floor, he shrank away as if your touch burned him.

“Don’t,” he rasped. The urgency in his voice made you stop midway to helping him out.

“I’ll clean it up. Just…don’t. Go to the guest room. I’ll handle this.”

The refusal stung you. “I could—”

“I don’t want you to see what’s in my head right now, sweetheart.” Bright blue eyes pleaded with you silently.

When you didn’t move he added, “Please.”

“I’ll leave the bottle and the towel here,” you mumbled.

He nodded, looking too exhausted to supply a verbal answer.

You walked towards the hallway, trying hard not to feel like a chastised child who’s been sent to bed without her supper.

When you looked back at Bucky, he had buried his face in his hands.

You walked faster.

Instead of the guest room, you found yourself in the office, where you had returned the iPad. Trying to get rid of the image of Bucky sitting alone in the living room, you brought up several joke sites, scrolling listlessly through the images without cracking a smile.

After seeing the same funny cat picture three times, you decided to check your father’s Facebook again.

Your own face smiled up at you.

The most recent status: _The police have had no updates regarding…_

You looked up at the sound of breaking glass.

And Bucky’s voice, roaring in your ears.

**HIDE.**

What followed was the crash of splintering wood, the thunder of gunfire and your own blood roaring in your ears.

**Asset weakened, engaging.**

**Where’s the mind-reader?**

Placing the iPad back in the drawer, you realized that there were no good hiding places in the office except perhaps the most clichéd one of all: a fucking closet.

You stepped into the closet and tried to make yourself as small as possible.

Outside you could hear the sounds of a fight, men screaming, the boom of people shooting guns and a sound that you identified as the crumbling of concrete walls. 

You sent a quick prayer to whatever god was listening that Bucky would be okay.

Almost as if mocking you, you heard Bucky scream, a terrible, gut-wrenching sound that went straight to your heart.

You heard a faint thump that you imagined was Bucky’s prone body hitting the floor. Your hands were curled into such tight fists that your nails were digging hard into the meat of your palm.

**Got the sonofabitch!**

**First target down.**

You had to help him. Even if it meant getting caught, you had to help him. He wouldn’t have left you to those men. But just as you were about to push the door open, you heard his voice.

**Stay where you are. Don’t move.**

You tried to project your own thoughts to him: _How many are there? Are they looking for me?_

_Are you hurt?_

But instead of an answer, you heard him again: **Stay where you are. Don’t move.**

Like he was chanting it in his head.

Heavy footsteps.

“Where is she?” A man’s voice. Rough. Guttural.

Bucky talking, his voice slurred. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your little mind-reader friend. We’ve got intel that said you were traveling with her.”

“You were misinformed. I’m alone.”

**Lying fucker. Should hit him one more time for breaking Anya’s nose.**

“There are two bags here. One of them contained women’s clothes.”

You could almost hear the defiant grin in your friend’s voice as he said, “Maybe I needed a disguise.”

**Don’t worry, I won’t let them find you.**

The sound of flesh hitting flesh told you that whoever he was speaking to had just Bucky and you let out a small whimper.

You felt your heart stutter when the door to the office creaked open and through the cracks between the door, you saw Bucky with his lip split and a cut on his cheek bleeding freely.

He was squinting like he had trouble focusing.

Three darts protruded from his shoulder.

Two men were half-dragging, half-carrying him and suddenly, you felt a fierce pride in your friend for breaking Anya’s nose, whoever the hell she was.

A third man strode in and though he wore the same dark outfits as the rest of his fellow soldiers, this one carried himself with the air of a man who was used to being obeyed.

You suddenly felt certain that this was the man who broke Bucky’s nose and despite your fear you had the urge to do the same to him.

But when you saw his eyes, you felt your bravery shrink away, leaving you cold and empty. They reminded you of Bucky’s eyes, the night he tried to strangle you like there was nothing human in them at all.

God, were these the type of men you were running from?

He could put a bullet between your eyes without even flinching. Your bladder was beginning to feel uncomfortably full and you could barely feel your clenched fingers. The walls of the closet felt so tight against you.

**Stay where you are. Stay calm.**

The soldier snorted. “She couldn’t be hiding in the closet, could she?”

Your blood froze.

Footsteps.

_No, please—_

Bucky’s arm humming as if in warning.

The closet door creaked as it opened.

You clenched your eyes shut.

_Don’t let them find me, please don’t let them find me._

And light flooded your hiding spot.

****

*****

With a yell, Bucky pulled his metal arm free from the soldier’s grasp, spinning around and driving a knee into his captor’s stomach. The unfortunate man folded in on himself, clutching his gut, but his friend was quick to react.

He pulled out what looked like a stick with rings around it and when he flicked a switch, electricity sizzled around the rings. He drove the instrument into the small of Bucky’s back and he _screamed_. Oh God, how he screamed.

Hot tears streamed down your face at the sound.

When Bucky fell on all fours, he was smoking and you could smell burned hair. Cautiously, the soldier cuffed Bucky’s hands together.

Fucking coward.

“What’s gotten into him?” the leader said disdainfully.

“I don’t know, sir. Just went wild, he did,” the soldier answered, covering Bucky with his stick.

You could see your stunned expression mirrored in Bucky’s face. He was staring openly at you, where you were sitting in full view of the soldiers and Bucky himself.

And your friend was the only one who could see you.

The leader was looking straight at you, but from his disappointed expression, it was obvious that he thought that you weren’t there.

You had to touch your fingers to your cheeks to make sure you were real.

**Don’t. Move.**

Bucky was now staring at the stick the soldier wielded as if he was afraid of it, but it was obvious to you that he was trying _not_ to stare at you.

You mouthed the words, _I’ll follow_ at him.

He shook his head, making it look like he was simply getting the hair out of his face, but to you, the refusal was clear.

**Don’t. Wait for an hour after we leave. Then run.**

You scowled at him, this time, mouthing furiously, _I can help._

**Not worth it.**

**Where did that bitch go?**

“Well, солдат. At least, she wasn’t stupid enough to hide in the closet. You taught her that much at least,” the leader sneered. “But we’ll find her.”

Bucky twitched at the foreign word and let out a wordless snarl. 

You were _right_ there. 

How could he _not_ see you? All three of them couldn’t. 

Or rather, you thought as understanding dawned on you, they couldn’t _find_ you, what you had thought to yourself just as they were opening the door.

You stared daggers at the leader’s back.

 _Release him._

Nothing. His posture didn’t even change.

You tried again. _Release James Buchanan Barnes._

“How many wounded are there?” the leader asked. 

“Ten…well, sir, eleven now,” the one with the stick replied. His buddy still looked a little unsteady on his feet. 

“Good, nice to see that you’re still up to scratch. I would have thought that being on the run made you soft. But as always, you surpass expectations.” 

Meanwhile, you had started a mental chant of _Release Bucky_ inside your head, none of which seemed to have an effect.

“Let’s go, the others should have finished the sweep of the house by now, and we’ll know if they’ve found the mind-reader or not. This place is giving me a headache.”

**Slippery little bitch.  
God, I feel like I’m going to vomit. **

Just as the group rounded the doorway, another soldier appeared and saluted to the leader.

“Sir, we’ve done a sweep of the building and—” His eyes grew wide at the sight of you, still curled up into a ball on the floor of the closet.  
**The mind-reader!**

But before the soldier could speak Bucky somehow managed to wrench his arm away from the soldier’s grasp long enough to elbow the new arrival in the face, hard enough to knock him out.

Stick raised his weapon warningly, the gadget already crackling with electricity.

Panic lanced through you at the sight of it, and you threw out one desperate plea, _Don’t hurt him_!

The leader snatched the stick out of the soldier’s hands, “Enough, Ramirez. We want him subdued, not dead.”  
He glanced at Bucky thoughtfully and then said, “The drugs are wearing off, shoot him again.”

“Yes, sir!”

 **Xylazine, 100 grams. Not even a super soldier—**  
You heard Bucky’s muffled shout, but your limbs seemed to have frozen solid. Your thoughts felt odd, disjointed. It was becoming hard to focus. 

**Take him back to…**

For a moment, you didn’t understand the words that came after the thought, then with a jolt, you realized that the leader was thinking of an _address._

You memorized the words that came after, willing yourself not to forget. You whispered it to yourself as you heard the rapid footsteps of the soldiers as they cleared out of the house, as you heard Bucky’s final instruction of, **Wait for an hour. Then run.**

It was when the sound of car engines finally faded did you allow yourself to relax, the muscles in your legs aching and your head throbbing in pain.

You padded across the empty house in bare feet so that you could use the bathroom and finally relieve your aching bladder. 

But it was only when you stepped into the living room and saw Bucky’s backpack lying next to yours did it finally hit you.  
_Bucky was gone._

That was when you sank down onto the floor and cried, heedless of the broken glass that was scattered around the area or even the puddle of sick just a few feet away from you that Bucky never got around to cleaning up.

You cried for the family whose house was ruined simply because you made the decision to squat in their house.

You cried because of the utter quiet that came after all this destruction and how, after a lifetime of hearing voices, you were coming to understand how _quiet_ could mean the loneliest thing in the world.

You cried because you were no soldier, you couldn’t take down a platoon of soldiers to save your friend, even if you did know where they were keeping him.

You cried because _Bucky was gone_ , and you had no idea how to get him back.  
****

*****

**Author’s Note:** Nothing here. Just wanted to point out that when Bucky thought, “It’s not worth it.”, he actually meant, “ _I’m_ not worth it.”  
And on that happy note, good night everyone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author’s Note:** Nothing here. Just wanted to point out that when Bucky thought, “It’s not worth it.”, he actually meant, “ _I’m_ not worth it.”  
>  And on that happy note, good night everyone.


	10. Solitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote this in all of one day because I had an important interview today in the late afternoon and I was writing to ease my nerves. Ended up writing most of the chapter.
> 
> Funny thing, I had written 2 pages worth of story before I thought to check if bus conductors are actually a thing in New York. According to Wikipedia, they don’t. Apparently, bus conductors are mostly a thing in my country. TIL.
> 
> Honestly, I was a bit stunned at the amount of comments I got in the last chapter, you people are amazing! Thank you so much, all of you! I guess everyone’s worried about Bucky!

You stared at the back of the conductor’s head, your mind fixated on one thing.

_You can’t see me._

**It’d be nice to see Amy and the kids again.**

**Christ, my ass hurts.**

The conductor was getting closer to you now, and he hasn’t glanced in your direction yet.

_You can’t see me._

A sharp ache lanced its way across your temple and you winced. You were going to get a headache after this. Several deep breaths, however, were all you needed to start concentrating again.

He was talking to an old lady in front of you.

**Why did she have to pay in quarters…**

You tried again, keeping your eyes fixed on the conductor, willing him to obey you, _You can’t see me._

**I can’t believe I missed David’s soccer practice!**

**Dad’s going to be so mad when he finds out that—**

“Ma’am?” The bus conductor was looking at you with concern.

“Uh...” You stared blankly at him.

The conductor gave you a tight smile. “Ticket?”

**Why do I always get saddled with the slow ones?**

“Sorry,” you said hastily. “You surprised me, is all. Uh…let me get my ticket.”

The conductor waited for you as you fished out your wallet from one the two bags you were carrying. You were starting to dread opening the damn thing and seeing how little cash you had left on hand. If this kept up, you were going to have to start draining whatever little cash was in your bank account, too. You had tucked the ticket in your wallet, on the off-chance that the conductor wouldn’t actually see you.

You showed him your ticket with an apologetic smile, “Long day.”

That much was true, although long week might have been more accurate.

“Sure, lady, sure,” the man replied impatiently, barely missing a beat as he turned to the other passengers. 

**My feet are killing me. Maybe I can get Barbara to give me a massage.**

When his back was turned, you released a pained sigh and started to massage your temple, which felt like little shocks of lightning were shooting off at regular intervals.

At least your nose didn’t start bleeding again.

The first time you tried it at a bus, blood started dripping out of your nose almost as soon as you tried it. Stained your shirt, too.

The second time, this time at a diner by a gas station, it took nearly forty minutes before a waiter approached you, despite you being the only person in the place. You weren’t sure if it counted as a success or just shitty service.

The train marked the third time you tried to “ordering” someone to ignore you and all it gave you was a headache.

How the hell did this work, anyway?

It was tempting to simply dismiss the new development as “stuff that isn’t my problem”, but you decided that that was a luxury that you couldn’t afford anymore.

Especially if it meant getting Bucky back.

You watched the outside world begin to blur as the train started to pick up speed.

Three hours left.

Not long now.

**God, I thought that we were going to be stuck here forever.**

****

*****

You resisted the urge to smooth your shirt with your hands. Not that it would have done much good.

After four days of hard travel and barely any sleep in between those days, the shirt probably looked better than you did. Which was saying a lot, considering that it was wrinkled, sweat-stained and you had been wearing it for the better part of thirty-six hours.

Still, it wasn’t like you were going to stay long. 

And it definitely wasn’t like you had anyone to impress.

You repeated this in your head as you rang the doorbell. You weren’t here to impress anyone, you were here to get information.

That’s all, information.

You had to play this very, very carefully.

**It’s 8 in the evening, who could that be?**

“Coming!”

Your gut clenched at the sound of your former friend’s voice and you had the urge to kick over the potted plant somebody had put next to the door. Maybe for decoration or something. It was ugly.

Information. That’s all you were here for.

The door opened, and the woman at the door let out a small scream.

“Oh my God, it’s you!”

“Me,” you said flatly.

Amanda rubbed her eyes as if convinced that you would disappear once she got a better look at you.

She wished.

At the same time, words streamed across your head.

**…been gone for nearly sixty days!**

**Her father would—**

**_Oh God, her neck._ **

“Oh God, you have no idea how worried we’ve been! Your father’s been going mad, he hardly sleeps anymore! It’s been—”

“Nearly sixty days, I know,” you said, trying to keep a level tone. Detached. Professional.

Hard to do that when all you wanted to do was punch Amanda right in her stupid, perfect mouth.

Bet she never had to suck down five different kinds of pills a day.

Amanda was older than you by at least fifteen years, but she was one of those people whose real age never showed. Even now, dressed in a baggy old shirt and wearing fluffy slippers, she could easily pass for someone in her late twenties. 

She had dyed her hair blonde you noticed, last you saw her, it was brown.

You were jolted out of your thoughts when you felt Amanda take you by the shoulders and gave you a little shake.

“Where the hell have you been?” she screamed. You felt yourself shrink at the volume of her voice, her thoughts.

**…think this is some kind of game?**

**Her dad would go crazy if…**

“We’ve filed a missing person’s report, your father keeps going on about some terrorist! Are you _trying_ to send him to the hospital?”

**Her apartment’s in ruins…**

“Shut _up_!” you snapped, pushing her hands off you. “Just shut the hell up. I didn’t come here to get yelled at, Amanda.”

The mention of your father had scraped at your already frayed nerves, but it was her thought about your apartment that had managed to remind you of why you were here.

“What did you come here for then?” Amanda snapped back equally angry. “It’s not like we haven’t been looking for you for weeks!”

**Bags under her eyes, she looks tired.**

**When was the last time she ate?**

“I’ll get out of your hair as soon as you answer a question for me,” you said, fighting for calm. “It’ll take all of five minutes then I’m gone.”

The blonde was silent for several moments then, in a small voice said, “You’re not staying?”

“No, in fact, I’ll be leaving as soon as you answer my question: What does my apartment look like right now?”

Again, you had to wait impatiently for Amanda to mentally adjust to your question. You supposed that anyone would be confused in a situation like this, you haven’t seen her for thirteen months and you’ve been missing for two.

Now you’ve shown up on her doorstep, asking about what your apartment looked like.

So, it’s not like you blamed Amanda for her confusion.

You just didn’t care.

“What?” she asked, staring at you.

“My apartment. What does it look like right now?”

“I…didn’t your father decorate it with you?”

**Why is she asking about…**

**She’s leaving!**

You rolled your eyes. “I _know_ what it looks like before it got ransacked. I’m crazy, not stupid. I’m a missing person case, right?”

“Yes, we filed a report for you—are you really leaving? Please stay, look, we can call your dad—”

“No, absolutely, _do not call Dad_ ,” you said sternly. “I’m not planning on going back. Not yet. You’ll just worry him.”

“Okay, we won’t call your dad.” You could hear the raw desperation in her voice. “Just…stay, okay? Fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask. I can make you coffee…something to eat. I’ll answer your questions, just stay for fifteen minutes.”

You hesitated, remembering Bucky’s warning, _it only takes three minutes to track a phone call._

How long before the police get here? Did someone spot you as you were entering the neighborhood?

“Ten,” you said. “And I’m leaving as soon as you answer my question.”

Amanda nodded, a little too eagerly in your opinion, stepping aside to let you in.

You allowed her to lead you to her kitchen.

White tabletop counter, white stove, white dining table. It all looked too much like a hospital for your liking.

She must have been brewing coffee before you came here because all she had to do was pour you a cup.

“Here,” Amanda said, as she gave you the coffee. The rich smell of dark roast coffee flooded your nostrils and you remembered how it had been nearly a week since you’ve gotten some proper sleep.

Without really thinking about it, you slid off Bucky’s backpack and set it down on the floor, next to your own bag.

He never really told you how heavy the things got after carrying them around for most of the day. You started massaging the parts on your shoulders where the straps had dug into your skin.

Thinking of him made you remember what you were here for. You set the cup on the table, not even bothering to take a sip.

“Have the police been to my apartment? Detectives? Journalists?” you asked Amanda. When she didn’t answer, you inclined your head, willing yourself to hear her thoughts.

**Why is she asking me this?**

**Where has she been?**

**Had the Winter Soldier really…**

“My apartment. Amanda. Are there still people in there?”

Her gaze fell on the untouched cup of coffee.

“I didn’t poison that, you know,” she said with a thin smile.

You deliberately pushed it away from you.

“My. Apartment,” you said through gritted teeth.

She shook her head a few times, trying to clear her head.

“There were some police, the first few days. Your neighbors filed a noise complaint and when the police came, they saw…” She swallowed. “The place looked like it’d been hit with a hurricane.”

You nodded, willing her to continue. In your mind’s eye, you could still see the torn curtains, the shards of mason jars glittering on the floor. Bucky’s metal arm whirring.

And those dead, haunted eyes before he strangled you.

Was that what he had been like before he ran away from HYDRA? Was that what it was, a relapse?

“When they couldn’t find you, they launched a search,” Amanda continued and you had to force yourself to push those thoughts to the back of your mind.

“And they didn’t find any men there?” you prodded. “No soldiers.”

“S-soldiers? Why would there be soldiers?”

“Never mind. Did the police take anything from my apartment?”

She was still staring at you like she couldn’t quite believe you were there.

“Yes, some clothes. A…I think it was a glove.”

“Clothes?” you repeated, feeling your stomach do a flip. “What kind of clothes?”

“A sweater, I think. A man’s. Did you have someone over the night of…the night you disappeared?”

“None of your business. Nothing else, just a sweater and a glove?”

“They took some prints…”

“I don’t care about those. Now, Amanda and this is important. Are the police still watching my apartment? Are journalists? Reporters? Has the landlord given it to someone else?”

“No. The police sectioned it for a time, as a crime scene. Some journalists camped there for a few days. Your father cleaned up after that and he’s still paying rent. Listen he—”

“Fantastic. That’s all. I’ll be seeing you. Remember what I said about Dad.” You grabbed Bucky’s backpack from the floor, slid your arms through the straps.

“Wait! You’re leaving?” Amanda exclaimed, jumping up. “You’ve been gone for two months! I’ve answered your questions, can’t you at least answer mine?”

**I should call Nick. Tell him about…**

**Shouldn’t let her out of my sight.**

“Going to call the police?” you said quietly. Your heart was thumping madly in your chest and you suddenly felt very warm. The anger that you had been trying to keep in check felt as if it were boiling you from the inside.

“What? No, I wasn’t…”

“Go ahead.” You gestured carelessly to the telephone. Your other hand was clenched into a fist, fingernails digging crescents into the meat of your palm.

Amanda glanced at the phone uncertainly.

“Give them a call. Tell them I’m here. And when they come to your perfect little house, they’re not going to see me sitting at this table. They’re going to find you pointing at me, but all they’ll be seeing is empty space,” you whispered.

A bluff. For all you knew, the thing with the soldiers was a one-time thing.

Hell, Amanda probably didn’t even know what you were talking about.

But the nervous look on her face egged you on, the way she kept glancing from you to the phone. You’d shaken her up, coming here at night after disappearing for two months. Talking about police and journalists and not answering her questions.

It felt so good to know that she wasn’t Miss Perfect after all.

“And then you know what’s going to happen, Amanda?” you said quietly. “They’re going to think of you what they think of me: they’re going to think you’re crazy. And then maybe they’ll put you in a hospital like they did to me. Like you made my father do to me. Maybe they’ll even put you in solitary confinement if you keep harping on about it long enough. Ever been locked up in a mental hospital, Amanda?”

She shook her head, her eyes dancing with terror.

“Of course, you haven’t. You’re perfect. But call the police and that’s where you’ll end up in. ‘It’s for the best’, isn’t that what you said? Keep us dangerous freaks away from the normal people.” You smiled at her, showing all your teeth.

You’d never spoken like this to anyone before.

**Is that—?**

**Oh God.**

**She probably hates me.**

You sat back in your chair, letting the anger show on your face. Amanda made a small noise, reached out a trembling hand towards you.

“Oh, sweetheart—”

“No, shut up. Are you going to call the police or not?”

When she didn’t move, you secured Bucky’s backpack across your shoulders, tightened the straps. Used the chest clip.

After making sure that it was as comfortable as it was going to get, you bent down and grabbed your duffel bag.

You did all this so that you could hide your face.

So your former friend couldn’t see your relief.

“Kinda disappointing, actually.” It wasn’t. “It would’ve been nice to see someone fuck around in _your_ head for once. See you, Amanda. Thanks for the coffee. Remember what I said about Dad.”

Amanda didn’t say anything, simply followed you as you left the kitchen, into the hallway and out the door. She seemed too stunned to say anything.

It was only when you started to walk away when she finally found her voice.

“W-wait, no please!” She grabbed at your wrist, tried to pull you back, but you shook her off without so much as a backward glance.

**Shouldn’t let her go**

**Her father’s going to be so worried.**

**The Winter Soldier is a dangerous man. Christ, how many reports did I—**

You could hear the soft shuffle of her slippers against the pavement as she hastened to follow you.

In a sudden burst of inspiration, you focused on her thoughts, filled with words about your **father** and **Winter Soldier** and **Nick**. Your anger burned white hot, old hurts and betrayal fueling the flames, and there was no room for hesitation or fear or confusion when you reached and screamed, as hard as you can,

_DON’T FOLLOW ME._

Her footsteps stopped. 

When you looked back at her at the other end of the street, Amanda was still looking at you, eyes pleading silently. But she was standing just outside her house as if she was rooted to the spot. 

You turned your back on your former friend and walked off until you were sure she couldn’t see you anymore, until your figure was swallowed by shadows. 

You made it about three blocks away before your nose started bleeding. 

_****_

*****

At least Amanda hadn’t lied about your apartment.

Though some people gave the building strange looks, there were no reporters or photographers around.

And she hadn’t called the police, either, since the place wasn’t currently being swarmed with cops.

You might just get what you need unseen.

Bucky’s tips came back to you, as you walked closer and closer to your house. Don’t hunch your shoulders, don’t look like you’ve got anything to hide.

When you reached the door of the apartment building, you lifted one of the fake rocks from the flower box, where you kept your spare keys. To your relief, they were still there.

You looked up at the starless sky and smiled, grateful for small mercies.

When you reached your apartment unit, you realized that the windows have been replaced. The curtains too, someone, maybe your father, had replaced them with blue ones.

It sort was sort of surprising how little it changed. The mason jars were gone, several of your father’s paintings have been removed from the walls. The sofa had been sewn back together.

But other than that, nothing had changed about the small apartment.

It disturbed you. How can one’s life change so much and yet stay so the same?

You pushed it away to the back of your head, determined to focus on other things.

First, you found your phone, which your father had pulled off the charger and left on your nightstand.

Next, you went to your clothes hamper, praying that your father had not thought to do your laundry while you were away.

He hadn’t. You felt a surge of relief as you slipped your hand into the pocket of your work slacks, feeling around for a roll of paper you had prayed was still there.

_It was._

The numbers had faded slightly, but you were still able to decipher them and you punched them in with trembling fingers.

The ringing felt especially loud in the quiet of your room. Your chest felt tight, each breath coming out as a wheeze.

Finally after what seemed like a long time, the person on the other end of the line picked up.

“Hello, this is Sam Wilson speaking.”


	11. Sonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, Sam and Steve aren’t too aren’t too OOC. If they are please tell me! If you’ve got some tips on how to write them, I’d love to hear it!

*********

The waiter hasn’t spotted you yet.

You looked at your watch. 

Thirteen minutes.

**God, it’s a slow day today.**

**I need to play hard to get.**

You were starting to get a headache, but you kept your eyes on the waiter, who was frowning at his phone, trying to decide if he should text his new beau. 

**Should make him wait, don’t want to seem too eager.** You took a deep breath, letting his thoughts flow through you and then, started weaving thoughts of your own, _you don’t see me, you don’t see me, you don’t see me._

You could actually feel your blood pumping in the veins in your temple. 

It hurt. As if the mere act of pumping blood was going to tear your skin open. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the white worms in your vision to vanish. 

**She said she’d be here by eleven.**

**…better not be another damn fangirl.**

At the sound of the new voices, your concentration broke and a gasp of pain burst out of you, halting the stream of _you don’t see mes_ that you have been directing at the waiter. 

The waiter looked up from his cell phone, saw you and made a beeline for your table, a smile plastered on his face.

You looked at your watch. 

“Hi, welcome to—”

“A whole fifteen minutes!” you said triumphantly. 

The smile slid off the waiter’s face to give way to a look of horror. 

He looked around the diner; two new customers had come in, but other than that, the place was empty.

“I…I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he stammered. “I—I swear, I didn’t see you. I must’ve been…H-have you been here long?”

**Oh God, the Dragon Lady’s going to have my head if she finds out I’ve been texting at work again.**

**…really didn’t see her.**

**_Shit_ , how am I supposed to take Barry out to the movies?**

You blinked, realizing how that must have sounded to him.

“Oh no,” you said quickly. “No, it’s not like that.”

“So, you haven’t been waiting long?” the waiter said eagerly. “I—I didn’t keep you waiting, did I? Oh God, please don’t tell my boss.”

“No, um…it’s fine. That whole fifteen minutes thing was…” You sifted through your head, trying desperately to find an excuse. “A meditating exercise! You know, to control my breathing. I mean, I just got here.” 

**Oh thank _God_. Live to fight another day, Joe. **

**I think that’s her.**

The waiter hitched his smile back on, though you noticed his hand trembled a little.

“So, are you ready to order, Ma’am?”

When you told him that you needed a bit more time to decide, he went off with a solemn, _I’ll be here as soon as you need me, Ma’am._

Meanwhile, the two new customers were still standing, their attention fixed on you. 

Even with the sunglasses and baseball caps, you were pretty sure that they were the people you were supposed to meet.

It was kind of hard to miss two tall, muscular men in dark clothing conversing with one another in whispers.

Besides, if their clothes hadn’t given them away, their thoughts did. 

**No drones in the area, except Redwing.**

**…can lead us to Bucky.**

The mention of Bucky’s name galvanized you and, just like Joe the Waiter, you found yourself plastering on a big smile and waving at the two men.

**Well, that’s her. Not that there’s anyone else in this diner.**

Though you were pretty sure that these men weren’t going to hurt you, you couldn’t help but shrink into your seat as they approached. 

They didn’t walk so much as march, something that you had noticed with Bucky as well, in those rare, unguarded moments when he was sure that the two of you were safe. 

You had to remind yourself that you were doing this for Bucky, that now, it was your turn to make sure _he_ was safe.

Still, it was hard to look up at these men and not feel intimidated.

The blonde one seemed to be assessing you silently, in a way that made you feel like you were being X-rayed. 

He opened his mouth to talk and you involuntarily flinched. 

“Ma’am,” he said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Oh!” You had expected something along the lines of, _What the hell did you call us out here for? or maybe even, Bucky’s address. Now._

“I’m Steve Rogers,” the blonde continued. “This is my friend, Sam Wilson. You spoke with him over the phone.”

Sam Wilson slid into the booth and, without any preamble, began, “You said you had information on Barnes.”

After a minute, you heard his voice in your head, **Oh God, she _is_ a fan girl.**

That was when you realized you had been staring at Steve Rogers for a full minute now. He was looking at his feet, obviously uncomfortable with the attention

“Sorry, sorry,” you said hastily. “Uh…please, Mr. Rogers, take a seat.”

You grabbed the papers that you had been reading before Sam and Steve had come in to clear the table.

“Just Steve, please,” he said as he sat down beside his friend. He looked down at the papers and his eyebrows furrowed.

**Howling Commandos?**

“Just something I printed for a friend,” you explained quickly.

“You can keep calling me Mr. Wilson, by the way,” Sam supplied. “I like the sound of that.”

The corners of your mouth twitched, unsure if he was joking or not.

**Sweating, quick breathing, twitchy fingers, she’s nervous.**

**I hope this isn’t another dead end.**

“Are you really Steve Rogers?” you blurted out, finally voicing out the thought that’s been gnawing at you.

Steve looked embarrassed again. 

“Yes, I am,” he said, not quite able to meet your eyes.

His friend, on the other hand, had crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, frowning.

“Not many people recognize him without the suit. So you either know him or you have information on him.”

**…Maybe a spy?**

“I…actually didn’t recognize him, either,” you confessed. 

You shot a quick glance at Steve, who probably stood a little over six feet and had biceps bigger than your head.

“Sorry about this, but I thought you’d be um…smaller.”

His mouth quirked into an almost-smile. “That’s something I don’t hear every day.” 

“Sorry,” you said again. “It’s just that…um. From what Bucky told me, I didn’t expect you to be so…big.”

This time, Steve really did smile. It lit up his entire face and his eyes seemed to shine. With a smile like that, it was hard to believe that the man ever struck out with the ladies. Hell, it was hard to imagine him striking out with a runway model, let alone a nurse or a florist or any of the women Bucky had set him up with. 

**He remembers me?**

“And I’m glad you’re asthma’s doing better now,” you babbled on.

“Bucky remembers that?” Steve said.

“Dude, there is no way you have asthma,” Sam said. “You can’t have run like that if you have asthma. There is no way I lost to a man with asthma.” 

“I used to,” Steve said. “I used to have these attacks when I was younger.”

He was still smiling, though, so he must have really liked those asthma attacks, God knows why.

“Bucky,” he explained. “He used to remind me all the time to keep these cigarettes…”

You blinked. “Bucky told someone with asthma to _smoke cigarettes_?” 

“No, no, there were these herbal cigarettes…Never mind,” Steve said, changing the subject. “You said over the phone that you know where he is.” 

**I hope she’s telling the truth.**

You nodded, both in response to his question and his thoughts. 

**Please don’t let this be another dead end. HYDRA’s been…**

“Yes, I do. HYDRA’s got him,” you said. 

Steve let out a gust of breath and you could actually see him shrink, like a deflated balloon. His shoulders slumped forward and he shut his eyes, took a deep breath.

When he opened them, the air of desolation was gone. It seemed to you that he was a man who kept a tight rein on his emotions.

Sam, on the other hand, was still staring at you.

**Made eye contact. Fingers stopped tapping the table. She’s not lying. But how could she…**

**They’re going to turn Bucky into… _him_ again.**

“And how did you know that?” Sam asked.

“I…” you stopped.

You had shared this information with Bucky because you had no choice because it was necessary.

And possibly because the situation he was in was much, much weirder than yours.

“You…” Sam prompted.

“I can read minds,” you said in a rush.

The two men exchanged a _look_ , but it’s not the one you had been dreading. That _smile and back away slowly_ look people always get when they’ve encountered someone who’s _not all there._

Instead, they looked…contemplative. Calculating even. 

**Did she read Bucky’s mind?**

**When a Mommy rabbit and a Daddy rabbit love each other very much…**

“Did you just think about two rabbits having sex?” you blurted out. 

Sam chuckled. 

“Yeah, she’s the real deal,” he told Steve.

Steve nodded. “Okay, so how did you get this information?”

“Well, you accepted that quickly,” you said. “Most the time, people just think I’m crazy.”

“Believe me,” Sam said. “We’ve seen crazier.”

“Bucky,” Steve said, trying to get the conversation back on track. “How did you know him? Do you know where they’re keeping him now?”

**Could have moved him by now, we were always too late.**

“Right, Bucky. I know where he is.” You scribbled down the address on a tissue and handed it to Steve. “It’s a HYDRA base.” 

“And you know this how?” Sam asked.

“Because I read it off one of the soldier’s minds,” you explained. “The night they attacked us and they took Bucky away.”

“Us? You were with him?” Steve said.

You nodded.

“The news said he kidnapped you,” Sam probed. 

“No, actually he saved me,” you paused, feeling the truth in your words. “He saved me.”

You took a deep breath, tried to steady the emotions swirling inside you, anxiety, worry, fear, anger, _hope_. 

You had to convince them.

“I think I should start at the beginning.”

*********

By the time you finished your story, Joe the Waiter had taken your orders, came back with your meals and had refilled everyone’s coffee cups at least once.

You had told them about the businessman, the soldiers, the way they had attacked your apartment and how Bucky had fought them.

You talked about the two months you’ve spent with him, the way the two of you had to leave as soon as you heard anything the least bit suspicious. 

But there were things that you didn’t tell them as well. 

You didn’t tell them how he would sometimes scream in his sleep. 

You definitely didn’t tell them about how you would sometimes hear about the things he had done when he was working for HYDRA.

Some things weren’t yours to tell. 

You didn’t tell them about how you were able to…control the soldier, either. You were still trying to wrap your head around it yourself. 

Even so, the things that you did tell the two men was enough to disquiet them. When you told them about the soldiers electrocuting Bucky, Steve’s hands had balled into fists, as if he longed to strike the offending soldier. You found yourself quietly appreciating the sentiment. 

When you finished, the blonde leaned back into his seat and let out a sigh.

**If he remembers, why didn’t he contact…**

**Finally, another customer!**

“Sounds like you’ve been through quite a lot,” Sam observed.

You shrugged. “Believe it or not, I’ve had worse.”

When you noticed him staring, you gave a little shake of your head to clear your thoughts.

Thankfully, this was around the time when Steve chose to speak up.

“And you’re sure that they’re keeping Bucky here?” he gestured to the tissue you had written the address on.

“I heard that they were taking him there, yes, but that’s the best I can do.”

Steve sighed, looking over at the address again.

**What if they moved him...**

**We have to prepare for the worse.**

“Can’t you…read his mind again?” Sam suggested. 

Well, that was something new. “Uh… _what_?” 

“The soldiers, Barnes, whoever. Can’t you read their minds right now? Confirm that they’re still in that HYDRA base?”

You stared at Sam, stunned at the suggestion.

 _Could_ you read someone’s mind, despite the distance? You had enough trouble trying to disentangle someone’s thoughts from the crowd of voices you heard every day. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried that,” you admitted. 

“Can you try now?” Steve asked.

Steve was looking at you hopefully and you found yourself wishing you could sink a little lower into your seat. 

“I can try, yeah. But uh…don’t expect too much. I only found out that it was actually people’s thoughts I was hearing two months ago.”

“What did you think they were before?” Sam prodded.

You dodged the question by concentrating on the voices around you.

**Oh no, what if he thinks I’m _too_ hard to get?**

**Hopefully, she can lead us to Bucky.**

**Finally, one that isn’t filled with rowdy teenagers.**

**Is she reading my mind now?**

The jolt of electricity that burned a path across your head broke your concentration, not that it mattered. The only thoughts you heard were the ones in the diner.

“Sorry,” you mumbled. “I can only hear the ones in the diner.”

Though the expression on Steve’s face never wavered, you could hear the raw disappointment in his thoughts. 

**Limited range, then.**

**Shouldn’t have hoped…**

“I’m sorry,” you said again. You could feel your heart against your chest. 

You couldn’t hear people’s thoughts over long distances. Did that mean that you couldn’t be useful to them? 

“No, it’s fine,” Steve said quickly. He grimaced at the obviously fake sentiment. “What I meant to say was, I appreciate you trying.” 

“It’s still the best lead we’ve got for Barnes,” Sam added.

A moment of silence fell over the three of you. You gave them the information they wanted and had told them about how Bucky and you had met. By now, they should be leaving, the three of you going your separate ways.

You couldn’t let that happen. 

“There’s something else,” you began hesitantly.

“Information?” Sam asked.

“No. Not information.” You took a deep breath, tried to calm the rapid pace of your heart. “I want to come with you.”

The two men once again exchanged calculating looks. When they looked back at you, their faces were stone.

It was Sam who spoke up first.

“No.”

*********

Well, it’s not like you hadn’t been expecting it.

Still, anticipating a refusal and actually hearing it were two very different things. It still stung. You felt your cheeks begin to heat up.

Your palms were slick with sweat.

You forced yourself to take a deep breath before answering. 

“Okay, why?” 

“You’re a civilian,” Sam explained, his voice infuriatingly calm. “You may have freaky mind powers but based on what you’ve told us, you’ve never been in a fight in your life.”

By “fight”, you were pretty sure that the man didn’t mean petty disagreements or even screaming contests. 

You lost most of the disagreements you got in, anyway.

But you were determined not to lose this one. The image of Bucky down on all fours and his body still smoking from the current of electricity that had run through him was burned into your mind. You saw it every time you closed your eyes.

You could still hear him telling you to run.

Well, he never really specified _which_ direction you were supposed to be running in.

**…whole thing must have turned her life upside down.**

**…just a kid.**

“We can’t risk you getting hurt,” Steve added.

You looked down at your hands, feeling a bit uncomfortable at the concern in their voices. Fingers gently tapping on the wooden surface of the table. 

Steve had said we can’t risk you getting hurt, not we can’t risk you hurting another person. The realization made your throat tighten.

Of course, he’d say that you told yourself sternly. He thinks you’re normal. He doesn’t know about your diagnosis.

“I can provide information,” you said. Though you had rehearsed your reasons many times after your phone call with Sam, the words came out low and mumbled, spoken through numb lips.

Bucky had gotten caught trying to keep you safe. He had kept you safe. Was it so wrong to try and return the favor?

“Pardon?” Steve asked.

“Information. The soldier’s thoughts, where they are, what they’re thinking, how many of them are in the building,” you paused for effect. “What part of the building they’re keeping Bucky. What they’ve done to him.”

“Barnes is dangerous,” Sam protested. “We don’t know what state he’ll be in when we find him.”

Unbidden, the image of Bucky standing in the middle of your wrecked apartment came back to your mind. That blank expression on his face.

You must have turned white because Sam gave you a level stare and said, “You know how dangerous he can be.”

**Bastard wrecked my car.**

**It wasn’t his fault.**

“Yes,” you said. “I’ve seen him…out of it. He tried to strangle me.” 

Steve made a small noise in protest. When Sam and you focused on him, he scowled, though it wasn’t directed at you or his friend.

“It wasn’t his fault. HYDRA they…did things to him. I’m not sure what, but they brainwashed him somehow, made him forget…” Steve paused and when he looked at you, you could see the conviction in his eyes. “It’s not his fault.”

“His fault or not, he’s still dangerous,” Sam said. He glanced at you. “Very dangerous.”

“I know. I still want to help. I can help you. Maybe not fight. But I can give you information,” you insisted.

 **If we could sneak in, there may be a chance that we could get Bucky before they move him.**

“We could leave her in the car,” Steve suggested.

“Limited range, remember?” You gave a wry smile. “I wouldn’t be able to hear it.”

Sam looked unhappy. “You’re still a civilian.”

“You were, too,” Steve reminded him.

“I had prior military experience.”

“Look,” you said, starting to feel desperate. “I’m not asking you to make me Rambo and go in with guns blazing. All I’m asking is that you let me help. Please.” 

“And if you get hurt?” Sam was quick to ask. “Your father’s very worried about you, he appeared on the news several times. Your friends are probably just as worried.”

You swallowed, looked down to see your hands shaking. You clasped them together.

“I don’t have friends,” you said quietly. “Just one.” 

**Oh God, she’s doing that puppy dog thing.**

Steve sighed, his eyes fixed on the address.

“We’d need all the help we can get,” he acknowledged. 

**This isn’t a S.H.I.E.L.D.-approved mission, we’d have no backup.**

“ _I_ can help,” you insisted.

The blonde looked at his friend for the third time and you had to wonder if the two could communicate telepathically, they seemed to be holding an entire conversation in complete silence.

“You’ll stay out of the way in a fight,” Sam said. “That way Steve can keep you safe.”

**Yes, I got a text back!**

You had to resist the urge to leap up in your seat and cheer right alongside with Joe the Waiter. 

“Thank you,” you said, feeling happiness swell inside you like a balloon.

“Thank us after we’ve made sure that you aren’t filled with enough bullet holes to resemble Swiss cheese,” Sam said sourly.


	12. Hiraeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of violence here people, so for anyone who is a bit squeamish, just a heads up. This was supposed to be all in one chapter, but it ended up being so long I had to cut it. Anyway, I just wanted to thank everyone who commented and kudosed the last chapter, thank you all so much! I really appreciate you taking the time to tell me what you think of my story! I treasure each and every one of your comments!
> 
> Also, I have a bit of a bad announcement. Since school is going to be starting again, I expect to have a lot less free time than I used to, so I’m going to have to cut back the **weekly update to once every two to three weeks. I expect the chapters will be shorter, too**. I’m really sorry about this, I’ll try to keep my updates consistent, but they’ll be coming at a slower rate. I really pushed to post this chapter before school starts, tomorrow, so I hope you enjoy!

****

*****

You stared apprehensively at the drone hovering in front of you.

“Cute, isn’t he?’ Sam said, making it do a couple of loop-de-loops.

“More like creepy,” you said. “And since Redwing’s a drone, shouldn’t you say ‘it’, rather than he?” 

“Stop that, you’ll hurt his feelings,” Sam scolded you. The little drone’s wings actually drooped, giving it the appearance of a sad bird. 

You had to admit, that was impressive.

**…should be able to test run some new features.**

“Okay, fine. Sorry Redwing,” you told the robot. 

“Pet him,” Sam encouraged. 

“Um…no thanks.” With the drone’s small body and black, steel wings, from a distance Redwing could be mistaken for a bird of prey. Up close, though, it made you uncomfortable.

You heard somewhere that the closer a digital image was to resembling a real object, the more unsettling it got. Well, that was certainly true for Sam’s robot pal.

The drone swooped up into the air, startling a squeak from you and continued its ascent until you couldn’t see it against the night sky.

“Too bad,” Sam said. “I think he likes you.”

“Where’s he going?” you asked.

“Scouting around the building. Looking for signs of snipers, other drones, anything that might give HYDRA an edge. He can also send me visual feedback using this.” Sam tapped the goggles that he was about to put on.

You found that you had nothing to say to that; drones, snipers, evil organizations, this was all _way_ over your head. Two months ago, you were serving coffee at a regular 9-5 job, hoping to make enough money to cover both the rent _and_ your pills. 

Now, here you were about to storm a HYDRA base in the hope of saving a friend.

Never mind that you only had a vague idea of what HYDRA was. 

A quick glimpse at your hands told you that your fingers were trembling.

So instead, you just said, “Wow.” 

Sam grinned as he snapped on the goggles.

**Nothing out of the ordinary so far.**

“Pretty impressive, isn’t he?” 

He was wearing a red-and-black suit, as well as a large, metal backpack, which he had told you was actually a high-powered jetpack.

At this point, you were pretty sure that if Sam told you that Steve could shapeshift into other human beings, you’d believe him.

“Hey, where _is_ Steve?” you asked his friend. 

“Getting his shield.”

A _shield_? Was he planning on storming a HYDRA base in a suit of armor?

“There he is.” Sam raised a hand in greeting and despite Steve’s large frame, you had to squint to see him in the darkness. Like Sam, he was also wearing a suit though thankfully one that wasn’t made of metal. 

Unlike Sam, Steve’s suit was a dark blue with a silver star and stripes emblazoned at the chest. While the man’s clothing looked like it was made for sneaking around, the shield that he was carrying definitely _wasn’t_. 

It was painted a bright red and silver, like a target, with the star in the center to act as the bull’s-eye, you had to wonder what possessed the stoic man to put the _American flag_ on a shield. 

That was when it hit you, and your jaw dropped.

Steve gave you a concerned look. “Are you all right?”

“You’re _Captain America_!” you sputtered. The costume he was wearing now was a lot less flashy than the one he wore in those old movies, but the shield was unmistakable. Well, the newer version anyway. He used to have another one from the older movies, but the circular shield was that made it into the history books. 

The blonde looked down at his feet and nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“We studied you in history class!”

Sam looked amused. “Hear that, Cap? You’re in the history books, maybe they put you next to the dinosaurs.”

Though it had been hard to pay attention to lectures when your head was buzzing with voices, you remembered the lectures on Captain America, how he had saved an entire prison camp full of POWs and later formed his own squad called—

You inhaled sharply.

The Howling Commandos. 

**If he tries to attack me again…**

**No moon tonight should get some decent cover.**

“Ready?” Steve asked, turning to you.

You shoved your hands into your jeans pockets so he couldn’t see it trembling. Maybe Bucky was a history buff?

Somehow you doubted it. 

You wished you paid more attention in class. Or at least read that document you printed out for Bucky. 

“Yeah,” you said, your voice coming out hoarser than you expected.

“You could still back out you know,” Sam said and the way he was looking at you told you that you weren’t as good at hiding your feelings as you’d like to believe.

You didn’t want to bother the two of them with your questions and instead made a mental note to read up on the Howling Commandos as soon as you got back. 

Or maybe just ask Bucky about it. 

“N-no,” you said. “I’m coming with you. I want to help.” 

“Okay, remember what I told you?” 

“Hide at the first sight of an enemy, don’t get into fights and do what Steve tells me,” you recited. “Yeah, got it.”

Sam nodded in approval. “I’d give you a gun, but considering that you’ve never shot one before, it’s best if we keep your hands empty. All right, I’ll see you later.”

“W-wait, you’re not coming with us?” you asked.

“No, cramped corridors aren’t my forte. I’m better off giving you air support. Steve’ll keep you safe, though.” 

Steve gave you a tight-lipped smile and planted a big hand on your shoulder. 

“We appreciate you doing this,” he said. 

You found yourself returning his smile and saying, “I’ll try not to get in the way, then.”

“You won’t,” Steve assured you. 

Sam gave the two of you a wave as large metal wings erupted from his jetpack—which really _was_ a jetpack—and, in a burst of sound, shot off into the dark.

“I guess that’s our cue,” Steve said. 

It felt like your heart was trying to pound its way out of your chest. The blonde gave your shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“Ready?” 

“No,” you said. “Let’s go anyway.”

****

*****

The building was dimly lit, all but a few lights were left burning in the hallway. This was something you expected, from the outside the windows had been dark, maybe to avoid drawing attention or make it look abandoned.

What you didn’t expect was how empty the place was…and how _normal_. You’d half expected a skull chandelier or a painting made out of blood. Instead what you got was a normal office: clean white tiles, a room filled with cubicles. 

It certainly didn’t look like the base of an evil organization.

Steve moved in front of you, his shield raised. “Stay behind me,” he whispered.

For one painful moment, you remembered Bucky, his body tense just like Steve’s, whispering the exact same words as he opened the door to your apartment.

You resisted the urge to clutch at Steve’s suit like a frightened child.

Steve touched the comm piece in his ear, “Hallways are empty,” he reported to Sam.

He gave you a glance as if to ask, “You sure this is the place?” 

You stared at him for a moment, panic mounting. What if you had heard it wrong? What if you just led the two of them on a wild goose chase?

What if the time they spent preparing for this rescue mission could have been better spent looking for Bucky’s actual prison?

Sam’s voice crackled into Steve’s comm, as well as the one you had placed in your ear. 

“Redwing just took out three enemy drones. They were firing missiles. This isn’t an ordinary building.”

Steve nodded, satisfied and continued his path down the hallways. 

Compared to the way he walked, your footsteps sounded unnaturally loud. 

**…bored. Wish they’d hurry the fuck up.**

**…thirsty…hungry…let me die…**

This time, you really did grab onto Steve’s suit, hands closing around the cloth like a child longing for a blanket. The tiny hairs on the back of your neck were standing on end. 

He gave you a worried look and gently touched your wrist.

“You okay?” he asked. 

“I can here… someone,” you whispered. The voices seemed to be coming from under your feet. “Downstairs. I think they’re downstairs.”

“Can you hear anyone on this floor?” your companion asked.

You closed your eyes, trying to shut out your other senses. 

**…thirsty…hungry…God it hurts.**

**…fought like a fucking animal…**

The voices were faint, like someone whispering in your ear and you had to struggle to make out the words. 

“I don’t think so,” you said. “I keep hearing the same voices, so this floor’s probably empty. I—I mean, I’m not sure, though.”

Steve nodded and relayed the message to Sam, “She can hear voices from below, we’re going down several floors.”

His voice crackled in your ear, “Roger that. Be careful.”

The empty floor felt eerie as the two of you made your way toward the elevator. Passing through the windows made you feel vulnerable as if someone was watching you through them. 

You recalled Sam’s earlier comment about snipers.

When you reached the elevator, you were about to call it when Steve touched your arm and gestured to the stairs.

“They’ll hear us coming,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “We’ll take the stairs.”

You nodded, feeling silly for not thinking about that on your own. You tried not to pay too much attention to the thoughts you could hear flitting around in his head, most of which involved doing calculations of some sort. 

**…hurts so much…oh God, so thirsty…**

**…should be here after 10 p.m. My feet hurt already.**

The second voice was growing louder as the two of you descended and you touched Steve to tell him this.

“How many?”

“Just one, I think it’s a guard doing rotation,” you answered, praying that you weren’t wrong. 

Steve silently pointed to one side of the door while he took the other.

“How close?” he mouthed.

“A minute or two away, what’re you planning on doing?”

“Incapacitate him, ask him where they’re keeping Bucky.”

You struggled for a moment, trying to decide if you should tell the man that you could make the two of you invisible to the soldier if that’s what Steve wanted. 

But what if it didn’t work this time? Would you ruin the whole mission? Alert the entire building? 

Would you miss the chance to save Bucky because you were unable to help Steve in something so simple as making a soldier ignore you?

Your thoughts were interrupted when the door swung open and a single soldier walked through it. He was carrying a large gun in his hands, his posture relaxed, almost bored.

Until he swung his head and saw you.

**Her!**

**He’s going to shoot!**

But instead of shooting, the man reached for a small gadget in his belt and flipped it on.

Your head exploded with a thousand thoughts and you bit back a scream as you were assaulted with sound. 

3.1415926535897…

Das Ende aber ist nicht nur das Ende…

There is no God to save you. 

A ringing in your ears that hadn’t been there before. You clapped your hands over them, but it only seemed to get louder, shut your eyes, block it out, no, no, it was making it worse. 

Oh God, somebody _help._

Der Freiheit der vom Juden unterdrückten Völker sondern auch das Ende diseases Völkerparasiten—

The voices stopped almost as soon as it started and you opened your eyes to see Steve with the gadget in his hand, looking like he had crushed it. The soldier lay unconscious at his feet. 

He extended a hand toward you, and you realized you were swaying. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. 

You swallowed down the bile that you felt rising in your throat. No, you weren’t going to be the reason this mission failed. 

“I’m fine,” you whispered. “Just a bit disoriented.”

**They know about her.**

**Hurts so much…**

Steve held up the small gadget. “He turned this on, right before he tried to shoot you. You looked like you were in pain.”

Your tongue felt stuck to the roof of your mouth. You licked your lips before speaking.

“I don’t know. I think it’s something that’s messing with my mind-reading. It makes me here…God, it feels like a thousand voices all at once.”

You waited for him to tell you that that was crazy, but instead, Steve tucked the gadget into his belt and nodded.

**Figures they’d have something like that.**

“I wanted to question him,” Steve said. “But he was going to shoot you, so I had to act fast.” 

“I’m sorry,” you said, feeling yourself flush. “Did I ruin it?”

Steve stared at you for a few moments then said, “He was going to shoot you. Had to stop him before he did that.”

That wasn’t what you had asked, but Steve seemed to think that it answered the question because he knelt down and started searching the soldier’s pockets.

“Anyone we should be looking out for?” he asked. 

“No, but I think there’s another prisoner here,” you said. “I keep hearing him, he’s in a lot of pain.”

Steve’s hands paused as he lifted a card from one of the unconscious man’s pockets.

**Please don’t let it be—**

“Is it him?”

You didn’t have to ask to know who he was talking about. “It’s not in Bucky’s voice. That man, though…” You shuddered.

You didn’t realize how tense Steve had been until you saw him relax, those muscles in his shoulders easing, if only just a little.

“Can you hear anything else?” Steve asked. “Bucky, maybe?”

**Thirsty…**

“Just the prisoner.” 

And Steve. But you didn’t tell him that.

The man looked torn, but his face soon smoothed over into that familiar, stoic expression.

**Need to find him fast.**

**_What are they doing to him?_ **

**He’s been here for a week.**

“If there’s a prisoner here, we should help him. And he’s closer to us than Bucky is.”

You looked up at the man in silent admiration; while Steve clearly wanted to go and find Bucky, he wasn’t going to let an innocent man suffer.

“Okay. I’ll lead you to him.”

****

*****

Thankfully, the two of you encountered no other guards as you made your way to the basement. You stopped in front of a large metal door, where you could hear the voice, louder now.

**Oh God, they’re coming…**

**Shadows under the door.**

**Maybe they’ll end it.**

When you tried the doorknob, it wouldn’t budge.

“Try this,” Steve said, handing you the card he had lifted from the soldier.

In the movies, it was usually a large ring with about a hundred different keys in it, but you supposed a keycard would do. You slid the card into the slot and you were surprised when a light above the knob flashed green. The door unlocked—

And warm air hit your face, heavy with the stench of blood and piss and feces. The smell seemed to be coming from a pile of bloody rags somebody had left on the table. 

You stomach twisted, bile rising at the back of your throat and you had to clap a hand over your mouth to prevent yourself from showing Captain America everything you’ve eaten in the past three days.

Steve took it much better than you did, stepping into the room after only a moment’s hesitation.

“Sir?” he asked tentatively.

It took you several minutes to realize who he was speaking to. 

The pile of rags moved.

**Who—who?**

“Oh, God,” you whispered. 

No, _no_. There was no way that was a human being, a human being could not look like that, wasn’t _supposed_ to look like that. 

Steve moved cautiously to the table, staring at the man with pity.

After what felt like an eternity, he loosened the straps that tied the man’s hands to the edges of the table.

**No no no, please, I can’t take it anymore.**

**HYDRA did this…?**

The man on the table shuddered violently as Steve freed one hand and set about to untying the other. A gurgling sound came from the back of his throat as the man tried to speak. 

**DON’T—NO—HURTS.**

**NOT AGAIN NOT AGAIN.**

**I am LOYAL.**

His feet rattled against the table as he shook. 

You realized that you had simply been staring at Steve and the tortured man instead of trying to help. Cursing yourself for being so useless, you hurried to help untie the man’s feet. 

Bloo lined his ankles where the ropes had cut in. 

When the man was freed, he let out a low, wet moan as Steve tried to help him up.

**I can’t take it anymore.**

**Just kill me.**

“Steve,” you said softly. “He thinks you’re here to torture him. He’s terrified.”

He shot you an alarmed look and gently laid the man back down again.

“Sam, there’s a man here, he’s been tortured. We need an extraction,” he said into his earpiece.

As Steve gave the coordinates to his friend, you walked up to the man’s face.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you asked softly.

He mumbled something. Several of his teeth were missing. Bloody holes were they once were. You were seized with the urge to cry and vomit all at once.

 _These_ were the sort of people who were keeping Bucky captive?

“What?”

“Water.” The expression on his face looked too beaten down to be considered hopeful, but there was…something there. Maybe the glimmer of hope.

“Okay, okay, water.” 

You looked around the room, hoping to find something that can help ease the man’s suffering. 

There was a bucket on one side of the room, surprisingly enough. A closer inspection told you that there was water in it. A scrap of cloth hung from one side of it. 

You dragged both over to the table, thinking that maybe you could use the rag to wipe the man’s face.

As soon as the man saw it, however, his eyes grow wide with fear. He struggled to get up, arms too weak to support him. 

**No, not anymore.**

**Don’t know what I did—**

**I am _loyal_.**

“What’re you doing?” Steve asked.

You flushed, feeling like you’ve done something terribly wrong. “He asked for water.”

Steve walked over to your side and grimaced at the sight of the bucket.

**Those bastards…**

“Did I do something wrong?” you squeaked.

“No, it’s not…never mind. Put it somewhere where he can’t see it, it’s scaring him.” 

You moved the bucket to somewhere above the man’s head, out of his sight.

“Sir, sir? It’s gone, you can relax now. I’m sending someone to help you, okay?” 

The man’s eyes rolled wild with fear.

After a moment’s hesitation, Steve bent low, almost whispering, “I’m sorry to ask you this, but maybe you know where they’re keeping my name? His name is Bucky Barnes.”

**No, no, don’t know anything, what do they want from me?**

He shook his head violently. 

Steve’s broad shoulders slumped, but he gave a weak smile at the man. 

“Thank you anyway. Someone will come here to help you, okay? Please just relax. You’re safe now.” 

The blonde turned to you and mouthed, “We’ve done what we can, let’s go.”

You were about to follow him as Steve walked to the door, but in a sudden burst of inspiration, you turned to the man and whispered, “The asset. The soldier. Do you know where he is? You don’t have to say it, save your energy. Just think yes or no.”

You were so close to him that you could smell his breath, a putrid mixture of blood and vomit.

His mouth formed around the word, “Asset.”

**Left Wing. Room 23C. Keeping the asset captive…**

“He’s in the left wing, room 23C,” you relayed to Steve. You didn’t want to touch the man in case you hurt him again, so you simply said, “Thank you.”

He closed his eyes. His mind grew quiet.

If it were not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, you would have assumed he was dead.

Your fingers were shaking again.

Steve looked downright murderous.

If they hurt him…

“Bucky’s fine,” you said shakily. “He has to be.”

**…ordered me not to hurt him.**

****

*****

You felt like you were going to jump out of your skin. Every small noise, right down to your own footsteps, frightened you.

You spoke through numb lips. “Steve.”

He glanced at you.

“There are a lot of people on the left wing. More in Room 23C. I can hear them. Some of them have guns.”

As the two of you neared the room, the voices in your head had started buzzing again. 

**…could break out at any moment…**

**Carlos hasn't reported in for the last...**

**Have to pay attention.**

**Colonel Karpov should be here by now.**

Just as the two of you rounded the corner, Steve turned to you. 

“How many can you hear, give or take?”

You listened for a moment. “Maybe eight to ten, give or take.”

Steve reached for the shield at his back and strapped it to his arm.

“Stay here, you should be safe.”

Then, with what was obviously practiced ease, he threw the shield straight into the opposite wall where it _bounced_ off and disappeared into view.

You stared in shock. 

Then you heard it bounce again. This time, it hit flesh with a _whump_. 

A burst of gunfire that had your ears ringing. 

And then Steve was moving past you, into the hall.

**It’s him!**

**Shit!**

**Bull’s eye!**

A metallic ping that could have been a bullet hitting Steve’s shield. 

What was happening?

You resisted the urge to look into the hall. 

Steve had told you to stay out of sight. Sam had to you to listen to Steve. You weren’t going to ruin the mission just because you were curious.

Footsteps, somebody stumbled into your corner and your heart nearly stopped when you saw it wasn’t Steve. 

It was a soldier, dressed in black, looking dazed as he leaned into a wall. 

The cloudy look in his eyes cleared, however when he saw you.

**The mindreader!**

**Oh God, we’re losing!**

**Shoot him! Shoot him!**

_Ping, ping, ping._

His hand went to the pistol strapped to his thigh.

Panic clouded your thoughts and you screamed in your head, _Don’t shoot me!_

The soldier cursed as he fumbled and the gun dropped to the floor. You dived for it at the same time the soldier did. 

You heard the whistling of air, another solid thump, and the soldier collapsed on top of you. 

You gave a panicked squeak as you shook him off, your fingers clamped around the handle of his pistol.

“Are you okay?” you heard Steve’s voice say. He was just attaching the shield to his left arm.

“I didn’t realize one got away, I’m sorry.”

When you rose, you were still clutching the pistol. Ten soldiers lay at Steve’s feet, either unconscious or in too much pain to try and rise up again. 

“I’m okay,” you said in a small voice.

Steve glanced at you and gently took the pistol away. 

“Don’t want to hold on to that when you’re shaking so bad. Its recoil is pretty strong.”

“Okay.”

**I don’t know how many soldiers are in that room…**

**Should I send Sam to…**

“No!” you said loudly in response to his thoughts. “I’m okay. I’m fine. I can help.”

You reached for the pistol. 

Steve smiled as you tried to hold it the way you’d seen the soldier did.

“Do you have any idea how to use that?” 

“Point and squeeze the trigger?” you said uncertainly. 

“Aim for the chest, that’s easier to hit. And aim lower than you were intending. Brace yourself when you’re going to shoot, it has a strong kickback. And—”

“Stay behind you, I know.” 

“Good, ready?”

You nodded, feeling the too-hard surface of the gun hurt the pads of your fingers; you were gripping it so tight.

“Ready.” 

****

*****

The great metal door creaked loudly as Steve pushed it open.

You braced yourself, your heart hammering against your chest. 

The light illuminated Room 23C as the door fully opened and though you had promised to stay behind Steve, you couldn’t help the small squeak that burst out of you, “Bucky!”

At the center of the room was your friend, strapped to a chair. It wasn’t the one you had seen in his dreams, but the cruel manacles that cut into his wrists and ankles were the same.

You found yourself thinking of the tortured man and you fought back a wave of nausea.

His eyes snapped open at the sound of your voice, pupils were blown wide with shock. He looked rough, bruises decorating his cheek and a different split on his lip than the one had a week before. Every now and then, he would jerk involuntarily. 

But he was alive, alive. And the thought made you nearly giddy with relief. 

Alive and relatively untortured. Not like the man in the other room. 

Bucky licked his lips and leaned forward, looking as if he didn’t quite believe his eyes.

He spoke in a voice hoarse from disuse, “Steve.”

His friend was quiet for several moments then said, “Buck.”

**Does he remember me?**

**Shouldn’t have come here, it’s too dangerous.**

You suddenly found yourself feeling quite unwelcome. The two of them have obviously had a long history and had a lot to talk about. From the way Bucky had talked about Steve, it was clear that he missed him. 

And Steve seemed unsure that Bucky remembered him at all.

What was up with these two men?

You hated yourself for feeling jealous because Bucky didn’t even seem to notice you. 

_They hadn’t seen each other for a while, they’re best friends, Steve just mowed down a small army to get here, you just hid in a corner,_ you told yourself sternly. 

So that was how you found yourself hiding behind the robust blonde, trying to keep out of sight.

But then Steve cleared his throat and the spell broke.

“We need to get you out of here,” he said.

Bucky didn’t say anything.

**Too dangerous.**

**Would be quicker if I don’t argue. Have to get out of here before the Karpov comes.**

“Any idea on how to get you out of there?” Steve was eyeing the manacles as he approached. Each one was nearly an inch thick, obviously meant to take a lot of damage.

Steve reached for them.

“Don’t—”

The blonde let out a startled cry as he jerked his hand back suddenly as if it burned.

He stared. 

“Electric pulse,” Bucky explained. “Keeps me from using my limbs.”

“I’m fine,” he added quickly at Steve’s horrified expression.

**Used to be I was the one who worried about him.**

**I’m going to kill these HYDRA bastards.**

“Maybe there’s a code here somewhere?” you suggested, gesturing at one of the giant computers that encircled Bucky’s chair. “Something to free him?”

**It’ll take too long to find it, they should leave me behind Karpov is—**

“Good idea,” Steve said, looking around. “Search the room for any sign of it.”

“I think I can find out.” 

You walked over to one of the unconscious soldiers that littered the ground outside Bucky’s holding cell. After several minutes of struggling with his weight, you managed to haul him up.

His eyelids fluttered, maybe he was about to wake up naturally, but you certainly weren’t going to wait for him. You slapped him, gently, telling yourself that punching the man would be counter-productive.

Inside, you felt like you were about to split open. 

What kind of person would torture a man so bad that by the time they’re done, he’s hanging onto to life and sanity by the thinnest thread?

What kind of person would strap a man to a chair and send an electric pulse coursing through his body to keep him compliant?

And if this soldier didn’t do it, he was damn well guarding the people who did.

“Wake up.”

**What is she doing?**

**…hurts…**

“Wake up.”

You saw the soldier’s eyes open, dull and unfocused.

“Do you know the code to releasing the asset?” 

**…shouldn’t release asset…too dangerous.**

**Wait until Karpov…**

“Tell me.” 

Suddenly the man seemed to realize what was happening, who you were, because in the next moment he said, “Bitch.” And spat in your face. You flinched as the warm liquid hit your nose, your cheeks, ran down your chin. 

Behind you, Bucky snarled.

Steve took a step forward, his shield held aloft. 

“Careful,” he warned. 

The soldier reached for his gun.

**Protect asset…**

_No, sit back down. It hurts too much to fight._

The hand that was reaching for his gun went for his leg, where he obviously ached.

“What is the code for releasing the asset?”

_Tell me._

“Go to hell.” 

**I should kill her.**

**Should report the breach to HQ**

**If I had the code words…**

**Free the asset. Use the words.**

**1130570\. What was the first word?**

Bingo.

You smiled. “Thanks.”

The soldier went white. 

**She’s the mind-reader!**

You backed away, feeling your head begin to ache. You closed your eyes and rubbed your forehead, willing the pain to go away. 

In fact, you were so concerned about the headache that you didn’t notice that the soldier was reaching for his gun.

It was only when you heard the whistling of air and a solid thunk did you even remember the soldier.

You opened your eyes just in time to see Captain America catching his shield.

“Don’t take your eyes off the enemy, not until he’s no longer a threat,” he advised.

You looked down at your feet, feeling shame burn low in your gut. What a stupid thing to do. 

“Here.” 

He handed you a handkerchief—people still used those?—and made a gesture towards your face.

You wiped the soldier’s spit away, feeling disgusted. “Thanks. The code is 1130570.” 

“How did you know that?” Steve asked curiously. 

“Read his mind.” 

Steve nodded and punched in the code into the computer.

Bucky relaxed as the pulse was shut off then the manacles sprang free. He flexed his metal arm. 

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I walked into a prison camp to save your ass,” Steve said, smiling.

“Yeah, and that makes what? Two to about a hundred?” Bucky shot back.

“About,” Steve admitted. 

He clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

**Does he remember all the fights…**

There was a moment of awkward silence before Bucky mumbled, “It’s good to see you, too.”

**Shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have saved me. It’s not worth it. It’s too dangerous.**

**Karpov.**

Then he turned to you and he smiled. 

“Thought I told you to run.” 

You felt a brief moment of panic, was he angry with you for disobeying him? Did he have some sort of plan on how to escape? Did you somehow ruin it by bringing Steve here?

But the way he was smiling managed to soothe your fears; he didn’t look angry. 

You swallowed the apology that had sprung to your lips and tried to smile back.

“I’m crazy, remember? When the voices in my head talking to me, I got confused and thought that “hide” meant “find friends” and “run away” meant “follow me”.” 

Bucky let out a huff of breath in amusement. “Nah, I think it just means you’re a smartass.”

You weren’t prepared for it when he suddenly hugged you, his body heat warming up your cold cheeks and chasing away the chill you had been feeling since the night the soldiers took him away.

You leaned into him, feeling his heart thump underneath your cheek and he was so gloriously _alive_ that you felt like you were going to cry. 

His grip around you tightened and right then, there wasn’t any place in the world you’d rather be.

He said, “Glad to see you made it out safe.”

You mumbled something other your breath that could’ve been a “you too” Or a groan of contentment.

“солдат?” 

Suddenly, Bucky broke away from you at the sound of the voice and the warmth that he had been exuding a couple of seconds ago was gone.

His arm whirred, as if in warning.

The look of hatred on his face was enough to make you take a step back. 

At the door was a scientist, looking around at the carnage in confusion.

He tried again.

“солдат , отчет .”

**NO!**

“NO!” The scream that burst out of Bucky was so unlike him that you jumped, less like a shout and more like an animalistic roar and suddenly he was moving past you, hitting against you so hard you were knocked off your feet.

**Oh God—**

And suddenly he and the scientist were on the ground, Bucky on top of the other man. 

He raised a metal fist. It glinted in the weak light. 

You saw the plates tighten, the way the muscles of a flesh-and-blood arm would have.

“солдат , стоп!”

**No, oh God, no please, not like this.**

“Bucky, stop!” 

When he brought it down on the scientist’s face, it was with enough force that it split the concrete underneath his head. The sound of his skull cracking against the pavement had you screaming. For one terrifying moment, you were flat on your back, looking up at Bucky who had his fist raised, his face a mask of rage.

When you blinked, you were across the room again, in your own head, looking at Bucky and the scientist. 

Blood splattered underneath the scientist’s head. 

**Oh God it hurts.**

And still, Bucky kept punching. His metal arm whirring wildly, the only noise in the room apart from the dull thuds of metal against flesh. 

Steve moved past you, trying to placate Bucky without touching him.

“Bucky no, stop. He’s not going to hurt you anymore he’s—”

**_Please._ **

Thud. 

More blood on the pavement. 

Thud. 

“Bucky, stop! Don’t kill him, we have to get out of here!”

Thud.

You closed your eyes. 

The scientist’s mind had grown quiet. 

****

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Солдат?** : soldier?
> 
>  **солдат , отчет** : Soldier, report.
> 
>  **солдат , стоп** : Soldier, stop! 
> 
> The sentence at the beginning of the chapter was from Mein Kampf, the English translation is: “The result is not only the end of freedom for the people oppressed by the Jews, but rather also the end of these parasites of the peoples themselves. After the death of the victim, the vampire dies sooner or later."


	13. Epiphany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of a heads up, this chapter is rougher both in editing and in sentence structure than most of my previous chapters, since I didn't have much time to edit in between having my nose rubbed raw against the grindstone that is school. Much apologies for that. I hope you still like it though.  
> Also, thank you so much to everyone who commented, kudos-ed and bookmarked the next chapter. It's just so amazing to read your thoughts on the story, and so inspiring! Thank you so much for your support, I love you all :D

Your head was full of noise and for once, it wasn’t the voices.

It was the sound of Bucky’s arm as its plates locked into place, the dull thwack of his fist hitting the scientist’s ruined face.

Steve shouting, “Bucky, stop, he’s dead! He’s dead!” 

An alarm ringing somewhere in the background. 

Sam’s voice in your ear, “Steve’s not answering, is everything all right?”

You swallowed, opened your mouth to answer and—

_You saw the scientist. Alive, whole. He was standing next to a man holding a red book in his hands. A black star at the center. “Good morning, soldier.”_

_A broken metal arm, split open so that you could see its insides, wires, and metal and the indentation of a red star that you knew was there. The scientist wearing a pair of goggles, he has something in his hand. Something cold against your neck. A needle. Pain._

_The man with the red book. Pictures. A young woman. Dark hair. Five foot nine. One hundred and eighty pounds. Your target. Behind the man with the red book, the scientist, his face eager, wanting._

The sound of scuffling broke you out of the—whatever the hell it was—and you saw Bucky being restrained by Steve, his metal arm bent behind him, his chest heaving. 

The front of his shirt was dark with sweat. He gave a half-hearted tug at his metal arm, but that only made Steve grip him tighter. 

“Bucky, stop.” This last plea was said through gritted teeth.

**…made him do this.**

**…torture…**

You peered at the blood running on the concrete, sluggishly pumping out of the scientist’s broken face. His mouth was agape, white teeth standing out amidst the sea of red like abandoned life rafts.

“He’s dead,” you said. 

Then you doubled over and vomited, that tight feeling in your gut refusing to go away, the feeling that screamed _wrong_ at the sight of a dead body. 

Some of the sick splashed onto your shoes, but you were past caring. You felt light, disconnected as if somebody had turned off the gravity and you were going to float away at any second. 

All the fight went out of Bucky and he sagged against Steve.

**Dead. I killed him.**

**…need to calm him down.**

**MURDERER.**

Seeing that he wasn’t going to try and break free, Steve loosened his grip. He was tense, the muscles in his arms standing out as he crossed them across his chest.

“Who am I talking to right now?” Steve demanded. “Was that man…did they tell you to kill him?”

“No.” You had never heard a sound so desolate, so hopeless. “It’s me, Steve. I killed him.”

“I’m spotting a lot of movement in the building,” Sam warned. 

**…just as bad as the monster they made me…**

“Why?” Steve asked. 

**Bucky would never…**

**They made him do it.**

His friend didn’t answer. 

**MURDERER.**

**\--unsafe. A danger—**

**They’ve been torturing him…**

“Did they…turn you again?” Steve asked and you had to frown at him.

What did he mean by that?

“No. They didn’t even do anything to me. Much. A general kept protesting every time they tried. Kept making all sorts of excuses. Eventually, they ended up questioning him. He told them that he’d been given orders not to hurt me. Last I heard he was imprisoned.”

Something in your mind clicked in place and you let out a small whimper. 

Steve glanced at you. “Are you all right?” 

He scanned you and his eyes fell on the puddle of vomit at your feet. You felt yourself turn red; Captain America was probably wondering why he even let you come with him in the first place.

“We need to get you out of here. Are you feeling dizzy, can you walk?”

“Steve, they’ve called in reinforcements. Two black vans, ten, maybe fifteen soldiers. If you’ve got Barnes, you’ve got to get out of there.” 

The blonde gently touched the earpiece. “We’ve got him, I’ll see you outside.”

Bucky had stood up, his body tense. At first, you thought that he was looking at the scientist, but then you realized that he was staring at the open door.

“Bucky?” you said hesitantly. 

“Footsteps. A lot of them. Get behind me.” 

You glanced at Steve for confirmation—did they have some sort of tactic planned out?

When he nodded, you moved to stand behind Bucky. He gave you a sidelong glance, the tiniest frown marring his features.

**…scared of me…**

**They’re unconscious, not dead.**

**…reported seeing Captain America.**

“How many?” Bucky asked you out of the corner of his mouth. His metal arm moved in front of you as if to protect you. Blood still ran down the silver fingers.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Steve crouching behind his shield.

**Use of fatal force against Captain America authorized…**

**The asset must be taken alive.**

**The mindreader must be taken alive.**

Goosebumps erupted along your arm at the last sentence and you had to bite down the scream that rose up in your throat.

“Five, six? I don’t know, I can hear five. Buck—” your breath hitched in your throat. “The asset must be taken alive.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened but he didn’t say anything else.

The footsteps were growing louder now.

**Throwing flash grenade.**

Your fingers unconsciously curled around Bucky’s shirt as you mentally reached out in the direction of the voice and whispered, “Drop it.”

“ _Fuck_!” 

A clang. 

An intensely bright light flooded the hallway, followed by a blast of sound that felt like it was going to burst your ears. 

**I can’t see!**

**God, it hurts.**

**Shit, shit, shit.**

“They’ve dropped a flash grenade, they can’t see!” you reported. And Bucky was moving, his shirt sliding out from between your fingers. His metal arm whirred as he charged, the cracks still caked with blood.

A soldier stumbled into the room, rubbing his eyes with one hand and using to lean on the wall for balance.

**What’s happening?**

**\--not taking me alive.**

Bucky’s metal fist slammed into the soldier’s face, knocking him out cold despite the helmet.

The man next to him let out a yell, fumbled for his gun, his eyes narrowed as he tried to focus on Bucky. He responded by grabbing the gun and shoving its butt hard against the soldier’s stomach, knocking the air out of him. 

The sound of the plates in his metal arm shifting, then Bucky backhanded the man hard enough that his head cracked against the wall.

A third soldier reared up, his rifle raised, though he didn’t look focused enough to aim. But considering the narrow corridor, if he squeezed the trigger it would—

“Bucky, behind you!”

Without thinking, you raised the pistol you had taken from one of the soldiers and fired.

It was if somebody had set off a small bomb in your hands, the gun kicking back with such force that it nearly flew from your grip. The soldier let out a startled yelp as the bullet hit the wall above him.

A resounding clang filled the room as Captain America’s shield connected with the soldier’s helmet and you watched as his eyes rolled back into his skull and he collapsed to the floor.

The shield whirled back to its owner and you followed its path with not a small degree of incredulity.

When Steve attached the shield back to his arm, he asked, “You okay?”

The question seemed to be directed towards the both of you. 

Bucky stilled and said, “No injuries to report.” 

His friend frowned at the statement but seemed to think that it wasn’t the best time to ask about it. 

You, on the other hand, blurted out, “How do you do that? I can’t even make a boomerang come back to me.”

Steve simply smiled and reached to tug the gun out of your hands. You looked down at your shoes, feeling ashamed. You couldn’t even shoot straight. 

As if reading your thoughts, he said, “You’ve never held a gun in your life. I don’t expect you to become a marksman just because you held one for five minutes.”

You nodded, feeling quite small in a way that had nothing to do with the fact that the soldier towered over you.

“Hey.” He patted your shoulder, still smiling kindly. “Aim and fire. You’ll get it right next time. Maybe at a shooting range.” 

The smile slid off, however, when he approached the unconscious soldiers, pinching his nose as he neared the smoke left by the flash grenade.

**Check the perimeter for other hostiles.**

**Is he all right?**

“They’re not dead,” Bucky said quietly. “Just knocked out.”

Steve looked surprised but nodded. “I know.”

“Cap, you need to get out of there. I just knocked out another squad, but they’re sending more.”

“Understood.” 

Steve held out a hand to Bucky. “Ready?”

After a moment of deliberation, Bucky took it and allowed his friend to help him up. “Who was that on the comms?”

“A friend of mine. We’ll see him later.”

You were trying to inch closer to them, hoping that you wouldn’t get left behind. You had to stop when you neared the scientist’s body, though. The idea of stepping past the puddle of blood made you queasy. 

Steve saw this and walked over to you. “Focus on me, it’ll be okay.” 

Despite the man’s instructions, you found your eyes flicking over to Bucky, who you were surprised to find was staring at you. He gave a single, encouraging nod. 

You found yourself focusing on him instead of Steve as you stepped over the scientist’s body, trying to ignore the metallic smell of blood that was filling your nostrils.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

Bucky was examining the other soldiers, some who had been knocked out by the flash grenade. Blood was streaming from their ears. 

“Good thing he dropped the grenade,” Steve observed. 

“You said ‘drop it’, just before the soldier dropped the grenade,” Bucky said quietly, looking at you. “Did you do this?”

You thought of the prisoner that Steve and you had encountered and considered for a moment, denying it. 

**The alarm’s still sounding, we have to get out of here.**

**Sam should be able to…**

“I think I did,” you said. “I’m not sure how, though.”

“You said that you could read minds,” Steve said, frowning. “You never said anything about controlling them.”

Something inside you tightened at that description; you had never thought of it that way. 

“I don’t know. It’s not reliable. If you want, I could—”

“Later,” Bucky interrupted. “Right now, we have to get out of here.” 

**What happened to the first squad?**

**They’ve silent…**

**Shit, does this mean we’re next?**

“Soldiers left side,” you said. “They’re wondering what happened to the first squad.”

“Anyone on the right?” Steve asked.

“Not that I can hear, no.” 

“Good, we’ll take that.” 

You followed the two of them, up the flights of stairs, past the darkened hallway. The yells of the second squad reached your ears and despite the stitch in your side, the voices spurred you on faster. 

**Just need to reach Sam.**

**If Karpov is—**

Captain America threw open the door of the building, cold air rushing past your cheeks. You saw the sky, so dark that no stars were visible. 

And you saw a helicopter, someone from the passenger seat aiming something at you—

**Got you.**

His thoughts were too far to reach, you were too tired, too winded. Captain America pushing you and Bucky behind him, his shield held aloft.

There was a blast of noise, like the sound of an airplane taking off and Sam Wilson dropped out of midair, legs extended. He kicked the tail of the helicopter hard enough that it was sent spinning in midair. 

You could hear the pilot yelling as he tried to regain control of the vehicle. The helicopter dipped, too low and suddenly it was crashing into the ground, accompanied by the sound of shrieking metal.

“Steve, get out of the way!”

The soldiers from below had caught up with you, you could hear snatches of their thoughts.

**Mustn’t lose the asset—**

**Turn on the scrambler!**

**Captain America…**

Steve pulled you away from the door and you saw Redwing swooping down to face the it in your stead, the drone’s single red eye gleaming. 

As soon as the soldiers came into view, a small missile shot out of the drone’s back, hissing wildly. 

When it hit one of the men in the chest, it exploded, a cloud of smoke erupting from the missile and obscuring the squad from view. Despite your distance, you found yourself covering your nose instinctively. 

Sam landed in front of you, scowling. 

“Knockout gas,” he explained. “I was saving that.” 

Sure enough, when the smoke cleared, the second squad was lying in an unconscious heap.

You were speechless. 

Why couldn’t you have something that cool?

“I changed my mind,” you decided. “Redwing might just be the coolest bird out there.” 

Sam grinned, “Told you.”

Bucky, however, was staring at Sam, his body tense. 

**…will lose most of his mobility if grounded…**

**Taking out the drone first would…**

He gave himself a shake, then said, “You’re the one Steve was talking to over the comms.”

It wasn’t a question.

Now it was Sam’s turn to stare. 

**…wrecked my car…**

**\--insurance company—**

**_Ripped my suit._ **

“I’m the one that just saved your ass.”

****

*****

“We can stay here tonight,” Sam said as he opened the door to his house. “I have a guest room. One of you can take it. And I have a spare mattress in one of the rooms. Someone else can take the couch.”

“I’ll take the couch,” you offered, noting that despite the furniture’s generous dimensions, you were probably the only one who could fit in it. 

Besides, they were all probably tired from fighting. 

You mostly just stood around and hid behind them. 

Now that you were safe, your mind kept flashing back to images of you vomiting at the sight of the scientist’s corpse.

Or worse, the prisoner in the cell. Sam said he had died before he could get to him. 

The notion of you sleeping on the couch, however, was quashed almost instantly.

All three men looked down at you with expressions on their faces that clearly said, _No._

“Just a suggestion,” you said in a small voice, feeling uncomfortable with the way they were staring.

“I’ll take the couch,” Bucky said. “Steve can take the mattress. You’ll take the guest room.”

Steve looked like he was about to protest. “Bucky, I’ll—”

“I’m fine.” 

The blonde paused, looking at his friend in concern, but Bucky refused to meet his eyes. 

**\--been tortured—**

**…lost his memory…**

**I wasn’t there for him.**

Sam noticed the tension between the two men and intervened, “Listen, whatever you two have got to talk about, it can wait until tomorrow, okay? Until we’re all thinking straight.”

He gestured to you. “Come on, I’ll show you the guest room. Steve knows where he’ll be sleeping.”

You couldn’t help but look back at the two as Steve said something to Bucky that you couldn’t hear.

“Come on, it’s upstairs,” Sam urged. 

You followed him, trying to ignore the thoughts that you could hear from both Steve and Bucky. 

**The file said seventy years.**

**\--shouldn’t even be near me. Don’t deserve to be here.**

“You can sleep in here,” Sam said, opening a door and making its hinges squeak loudly.

**Have to remember to oil that.**

The guest room looked nice, comfortable if a little bare; just a bed, a nightstand and a small chest of drawers for clothes. 

Sam had obviously expected that his house would be used as a hiding spot because the sheets and the blanket looked fresh.

You sat down on the bed, feeling it sink down a little underneath your weight. The urge to curl up on the mattress and pull the covers over your head was almost overwhelming. 

The tiredness surprised you, considering that you hadn’t been much help in the rescue operation. You looked down at your hands, feeling a small jolt when you saw that your fingers were shaking.

“That’s the adrenaline wearing off,” Sam explained. “I’m assuming that this is the first time you’ve been in a fight?” 

“Not the first time,” you said quietly. “They’ve attacked us three times before. Though Bucky did most of the fighting.”

Sam nodded. “But other than that, you’ve never shot at anyone before, never been shot at before?”

You thought back to the night of the fire, soon after your mother had died, the flames consuming the entire building. Dancing as it ate what was left of your home.

“No.” 

“How’re you feeling?” 

The sentence made your gut tighten and you shot him a suspicious look.

“Why’re you asking?”

Sam let out a sigh and sat down next to you. You could see the lines on his face, the dark shadows underneath his eyes; he looked exhausted. 

“Believe or not, I know what it’s like seeing that kind of violence for the first time. It’s not easy. I’m just making sure you’re all right.” 

“Are you a therapist?” The question came with a lot more heat than you intended. You were not going to this again. You weren’t going to take anything he gave you. You weren’t going to get into another session.

You most certainly weren’t going back into a damned hospital. Some nights you would wake up and you could swear you could still smell the antiseptic and the crisp white sheets.

“No.”

“A psychologist?”

“No.” 

“Then what—”

“I was a part of the Air Force, a paratrooper,” Sam interrupted. “I’m not going to force you to talk. But what you saw back there, the prisoner?”

Here you felt another tug in your stomach and you resisted the urge to throw up again. Sam said the man had died before he could reach him.

“Shooting a soldier? That’s going to leave a mark. You need someone to talk to, I’m here. You don’t want to talk, I’ll back off.” 

“I…” It made you feel better, knowing that he wasn’t a psychologist or anything. “I think I’ll be okay, Sam, thanks.”

He nodded and stood up. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me.”

The hinges squeaked again as Sam made to close the door and suddenly, the thought of being alone in the room, in being alone with the guilt of knowing what you’d done made you want to cry.

“Sam?”

The man paused and looked back at you. “Yeah?” 

“If—if I wanted to talk, like in the morning or…or…”

He smiled briefly. “I’ll still be here. Good night.”

“Good night.”

****

*****

It was the kind of dream that you forgot as soon as you woke up.

The feelings lingered, however, terror and guilt and the warm stench of piss and blood and feces smothering you as you entered the room.

The man, the prisoner.

He had been tortured because he kept protesting when…HYDRA, whatever the hell it was, tried to hurt Bucky.

But you had heard his thoughts, had heard him repeat the words _I was loyal_ , almost as much as he repeated his proclamations of pain, hunger and thirst.

And he was. 

HYDRA had tortured Bucky, had made him kill people but the prisoner had been loyal. 

He had said that he was following orders. 

Your orders.

You could still remember the fear and desperation that you had felt when you saw the electrical weapon descend on Bucky, certain that this time, it would kill him. You had sent out one frantic plea, Don’t hurt him.

The prisoner had obeyed you, had protected Bucky when HYDRA tried to…do whatever the hell they were going to do with him (electrocute him?) and he ended up getting tortured. Killed.

And it was all your fault. 

When you wiped your face with your hand, your palm came away wet with tears.

There was no way you were going back to sleeping tonight.

**Lila should’ve been home by now.**

**Oh for God’s sake, I’m not even on duty this week!**

**November—was it November? It was 1963. Extermination.**

You closed your eyes. 

Sam’s neighbors must be night owls or something. Well, it’s not like you were going to catch some more sleep. You hoped that Sam wouldn’t mind if you had a glass of water. 

You padded downstairs on bare feet, hoping not to disturb whoever was sleeping on the couch. 

It was almost too dark to see and you had to feel your way around the staircase. Of course, it was some sort of universal law that when someone was fumbling around in the dark, they will, at some point, bump their toe into something.

You bit back a curse as this law made itself known once again, as you hit your foot against a wall.

There was the sound of shuffling and somebody croaked out, “Steve?”

The light came on and this time, you really did let out a yelp as the sudden brightness stung your eyes.

“Steve, if this is about—Oh.” Bucky stopped. “It’s you.” 

You smiled weakly, still holding your injured foot off the ground. 

“Not Steve. Sorry about that.” 

Bucky smiled wearily. “It’s fine.”

But fine was the last thing he looked like; his hair and clothing looked visibly rumpled, but there were dark circles under his eyes. His hands would periodically close into fists as if he was expecting a fight.

The words were out of your mouth before you could stop yourself.

“Are you okay?”

His smile wavered and broke, and you found yourself wanting to reach out to him.

“You don’t need to worry about me, sweetheart.”

But you _did_. He’d been locked up in that place for nearly a week, when you found him, he’d been strapped to a chair that was sending an _electric pulse_ through him and he brushed it off like it was nothing.

**Shouldn’t even be here.**

**Killed that man—**

**Did he have a family?**

“Bucky?” 

He snapped out of his reverie at the sound of his name being called.

“Yeah?”

You hesitated, not wanting to upset him but also feeling your questions about him was about to split you at the seams.

“What did they do to you in that place?”

You saw it then: the way Bucky went rigid, the tension in his broad shoulders, the way every muscle seemed to tighten in anticipation. It reminded you of a caged animal, just seconds before it threw itself into a fight for its life.

**She’ll call the cops if you tell her.**

**Why does she want to know? What advantage—**

**_Run screaming…_ **

“You don’t have to tell me,” you said. “I was just…worried, I guess. HYDRA didn’t look like a very nice organization.” 

Bucky chuckled humorlessly. “Understatement if I’ve ever heard of one.” He hesitated before carefully adding, “I suppose you deserve to know. You helped rescue me from that place, after all.”

“Not if you don’t want to,” you said quietly. “I don’t want you to tell me because you feel obligated or anything.”

He stilled at that, then gestured to Sam’s couch. Sometime after you had fallen asleep, Sam must have brought Bucky a blanket and a pillow, though both looked like they hadn’t been used.

You obeyed, sitting down on the couch, resisting the urge to pull the blanket around you.

Bucky sighed, a deep, world-weary sigh that made you think of deflating balloons.

Without pausing to think about it, you placed a hand on his arm. The warmth that emanated from it told you it was his flesh arm. 

He glanced at you, looking surprised, then sank down on the couch next to you. You pulled away so you could make some room for him. 

“Remember what I said about working for HYDRA?”

You nodded. 

“Well, that’s not exactly what happened…”

And so Bucky told you.

Not all of it, at least, not really. He told you about living in the forties, growing up with Steve and joining the army. He told you about boot camp and the friends he made there, how he used to worry about how Steve was doing while he was away (“Used to pick fights with any fella that looked at him wrong,” he mused).

He told you about getting captured by HYDRA and the torture he underwent. The way Steve had rescued him and how they had formed the Howling Commandos. (“I printed out information on them like we talked about. I can give it to you in the morning, if you want,” you offered.)

Then it got worse.

Bucky’s voice shook as he told you about the last mission he had with Steve. 

How the blast of a laser gun had nearly thrown him off the train, how his friend had tried to save him, how the railing he was holding on to had broken underneath his weight.

The fall to the mountain ravines. The face of the soldier who had found him. 

The experiments. The arm. And the cold. 

Here you had to wrap Bucky’s blanket around yourself, though you couldn’t stop shivering. 

Was that even possible? You knew that Captain America had been found in the ice a few years ago, but you never expected that someone would actually, _willingly_ do it to someone else.

You thought back to the way he had no idea what a cell phone or an iPad is, his fascination with the internet and even his delight at animated movies.

As horrifying as it seemed, it made sense.

Bucky didn’t look at you as he narrated the next part: the cryo, the arm, the targets. 

The dates you kept hearing in his head—were those _kill dates_? 

“I killed some of the best people in the last century,” Bucky said quietly, his voice haunted. “People with loved ones. Families. People who could have made this world great.” 

“You didn’t do it,” you said quietly. “HYDRA was forcing you.”

_Like you had forced that HYDRA soldier? _A snide voice inside your head whispered. _Like you had ordered him to protect Bucky?___

__You quashed that voice, willing yourself to continue listening to Bucky’s story. Tomorrow, maybe you would tell him. Or the day after that. Right now, it didn’t feel right to interrupt him._ _

__He smiled sadly. “Does it matter? It was done with my hand, my skills. As far as I’m concerned, I was the one who killed them, regardless of who was pulling the strings.”_ _

__He moved suddenly, leaning away from you, covering his eyes as if he was ashamed._ _

__**Killed that scientist.** _ _

__**Just as bad as they made me.** _ _

__**_Monster_.** _ _

__“I’ve killed more people than I count,” he whispered. “And I’ve been doing that for seventy years.”_ _

__**Now she knows.** _ _

__**She’ll run—** _ _

__**…will tell Steve.** _ _

__**_He already knows._ ** _ _

He cut you a sidelong glance, still leaning away from you as if he was afraid of contact. 

A sad little smile graced his lips. 

“You’re still here.” 

He didn’t look like a monster, you thought to yourself, almost idly. Didn’t look like the stone-cold assassin that you knew he could be, that you’ve seen before.

Bucky looked tired, exhausted. It was the kind of tired that you felt in your bones, a weight so heavy that you would feel your joints creak every time you moved.

No, he didn’t look like a monster.

For the second time that night, you reached out to him. You were separated by mere inches, but the gap felt as wide as a continent and when you slid your hand between his shoulders, you felt him sigh. Not the way he did the first time as if he was too tired to hold himself up but almost as if in relief.

“Yeah,” you murmured, the words so quiet they barely stirred the night air. “I’m still here.”


	14. Serendipity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! First off, I’m sorry this took so long! Medicine school hit me harder than I care to admit. Everything’s been so unbelievably stressful; I lost about six pounds during the first week of classes alone. Things are winding down now, though, and I’m doing surprisingly well. Hopefully, this means that I can keep the regular updates coming for you dear readers! I’m certainly excited about the kind of things I have planned for Bucky and the heroine! >:D 
> 
> Once again, sorry for the long wait and I hope you enjoy!

You woke up to the sound of a kettle whistling.

Somebody hissing, “She’s still asleep,” followed by the sound of the stove being turned off.

_**Sheesh.** _

“All right, all right, no need to get your panties in a twist,” someone said.

**Should lower his voice…**

You pulled the blanket over your head, trying to block out the sunlight that was streaming through the window and poking you straight in the eyes.

Somebody was taking a shower, you could hear the water running.

_Shower…_

“Coffee?” somebody asked.

“Keep your voice down.” You recognized Bucky’s voice. 

“I was talking to Steve.” The speaker, who could only be Sam, raised his voice. “Hey, Steve, want some coffee?” 

“You’ll wake her up!” 

“If we haven’t woken her up by now, I doubt anything will.”

**Ugh, I hate that stupid alarm!**

**Told him to fix that light bulb a thousand times.**

No, you definitely weren’t going to be able to go back to sleep. Might as well come downstairs and…

Your eyes shot open.

You remembered Sam giving you the guest room on the second floor last night. He had been nice enough to change the sheets and provide you with a fresh blanket.

The blanket, you remembered, was blue.

The one that was currently wrapped around you was green.

You let out a yelp and tore the blanket off of you—where the hell had you slept last night? Had Sam called your Dad and they moved you somehow? Or worse, had Sam somehow Googled your name last night, found out about the fire, your stint at the hospital?

Sunlight temporarily blinded you, making your eyes water. 

“Morning,” someone said. Your eyes focused on Sam, who was smiling at you over a cup of coffee. Bucky was there too, glaring at Sam as if to say, _I told you so._

**Ah Christ, so we really did wake her up.**

“Guess you really wanted to sleep on the couch, huh?” 

You looked down at your sleeping spot, which was obviously not Sam’s spare bed. 

And felt your face grow hot.

You didn’t remember falling asleep last night. You talking to Bucky, listening to his story, of the 1970s and the Winter Soldier and HYDRA. You talked about other things, too, when you realized that he couldn’t sleep.

You talked about camping adventures with your father, the impromptu art lessons when you just wanted to go out and explore. At some point, you had even fetched your phone to show him several pictures. 

What you didn’t remember was falling asleep and stealing his spot on the couch. Where did Bucky sleep? On the floor?

“Sorry, Buck,” you mumbled, staring at your bare feet. “Didn’t mean to bother you last night.”

**Didn’t _bother_ me. Actually she—**

“It’s fine, sweetheart.”

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” Sam repeated. “All right, then.”

There was the sound of whirring metal as Bucky clenched his fist. Little white lines appeared on his cheeks as he clenched his jaw. 

**This is _fun._ **

“Want some coffee?” Sam asked you.

You stared at him with some surprise, noting that he hadn’t offered Bucky any. You wanted to point that out but decided that it would be rude to tell Sam what to do in his own home. 

“Sure, thanks.” 

“No problem.” 

“Good morning, Bucky,” you said, as you stood up and stretched. A ghost of a smile flickered across Bucky’s features.

“Good morning.” 

“Huh, and here I thought that your face was stuck that way, Barnes,” Sam said. 

“Shut _up_.” 

“Here,” Sam said as he passed you the mug. “What’re you smiling about anyway?”

Too late you realized that you had been grinning like an idiot, you covered your mouth with your hand but Sam simply said, “C’mon, share the joke with us.”

“Nothing,” you said. “Just thinking about how you two act like an old married couple.”

**C’mon, why isn’t Amy up yet?**

**Oh God, what is he doing in the kitchen now?**

Bucky’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair at your remark, but Sam just chuckled. 

“Really? Us? We’re the ones who’re acting like an old married couple?” he asked.

“Wilson…” Bucky’s voice had a note of warning in it, one that the other man ignored.

“When I found you two practically wrapped around one another this morning?” Sam said with a smirk. 

Bucky was watching you, you could feel his stare burn into your skin. 

You found yourself wishing that the earth would open up and swallow you whole. The man had enough trouble falling asleep as it is, he didn’t need you to add to that. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” you mumbled. 

Bucky was saved from replying when Steve walked into the room, his hair still wet from his shower. His gaze was immediately drawn to his friend, who avoided his eyes.

“Good morning,” he said carefully.

**…never been this quiet.**

**What do I say?**

**I should leave, I shouldn’t be here.**

“’Morning, Steve,” Sam said cheerfully. “Coffee?”

“Sure, thanks, Sam. Sleep well?” 

Though the question was phrased in such a way that it could have been addressed to you or Sam, it was obvious that Steve was talking to Bucky.

Sam rolled his eyes and shot you a grin. 

**Maybe they’re the ones who’re acting like an old married couple.**

“Eggs?”

You blinked when you realized that Sam was talking to you. “Uh…sure, thanks.”

You watched as Sam pulled a pan from one of the cupboards and set it up to heat on top of the stove. Beside him, Steve tried to start a conversation with Bucky, who answered his questions in noncommittal grunts or one-word sentences.

It all looked so domestic that you found it hard to believe that just yesterday, you had all infiltrated a HYDRA base to save Bucky.

It was only the images of the prisoner, still burning brightly at the back of your head that prevented you from dismissing it all as just a dream.

You caught Bucky’s eye and found yourself looking away, feeling guilt gnaw at the pit of your stomach.

He had told you about HYDRA, how they had controlled him God knows how long. 

How would he react if you told him that you could do the same thing, except with your mind? That you had already killed someone with it?

Suddenly, the smell of cooking eggs and bacon made you feel ill and you were gripped with a strong urge to leave the room.

Sam’s voice rushes out at you, as if from a great distance.

“Hey, you still there?”

**For God’s sake, why did he let Amy play in the bathtub?**

**Time for Fluffy’s walk.**

**She looks tired. Is she…**

You had to mentally scramble for a foothold as you tried to remember what Sam had said to you.

“I uh…spaced out back there, sorry,” you mumbled.

“Steve asked how long you’ve been on the run,” Sam supplied. “To tell you the truth, I’m kind of curious, too. How long have you been together?”

You looked at Bucky for reassurance, unsure if you should tell them. It sounded sort of silly, worrying about Captain freaking America and Falcon being untrustworthy, but a month ago, you’ve never even heard of HYDRA or mind-reading or super soldiers. 

When Bucky gave a barely perceptible nod, you said, “About a month.”

“You’ve been missing for about the same time,” Sam said. “I saw you on the news.”

“Yeah, HYDRA soldiers attacked my apartment, we’ve been on the run ever since.”

**…dragged her into this…**

**If we could call SHIELD and…**

**Why didn’t he contact us?**

Finally, you decided to ask the question that had settled at the pit of your stomach since Sam had opened the door to his apartment since you had realized that Bucky really was alive and that he was safe.

“What’s going to happen now?”

Sam slid several rashers of bacon and scrambled eggs onto a plate, which he handed to you.

“Eat your breakfast, we can talk about it later.”

Before you could answer, Sam’s doorbell rang and he had to excuse himself to answer it.

Leaving you in the room with two men who obviously had a lot to talk about. 

The fact that they weren’t speaking to each other didn’t stop your head feeling too overcrowded.

**He used to joke about getting long hair, should I…**

**…guess he kept the suit.**

**I should say I’m sorry. I should have—**

You had half a mind to take your coffee and your breakfast and eat it in the living room. The air felt thick with tension and you found yourself shifting your weight from foot to foot, trying to draw as little attention to yourself.

“Buck—” Steve began.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam’s voice echoed across the house, surprise coloring his tone. 

You let out a yelp as you were suddenly yanked backward, the plate slipping from between your fingers and crashing to the floor. Your vision was obscured by Bucky’s broad back as he put himself between you and whoever was at the door.

**Assume hostility. Three possible points of escape.**

**That better not have been…**

“Director Fury?” Steve sounded as shocked as Sam had. “What’re you—”

A deep, male voice cut him off before he could finish his sentence, “Good to see you, Captain Rogers.”

The sound of the gears on Bucky’s arm shifting into place brought to mind an image of a very large, very angry dog baring its teeth at some unknown threat.

**He looks familiar…Does Steve trust him?**

“Please tell me that Barnes didn’t just break my plate.” That was Sam’s voice and when you peeked out from behind Bucky’s back, you found Sam scowling at the mess on his floor.

“It was me, I dropped it, sorry. I’ll clean it up,” you mumbled. 

“Uh-huh. How’d you drop it then? Barnes there got a little too jumpy?”

“This is him, then? Sergeant Barnes.”

Your eyes were drawn to the man standing at the entrance of Sam’s kitchen. Like Bucky, Sam and Steve, this man was absurdly tall, his height making the kitchen seem painfully small. 

However, unlike Sam and Bucky, the new arrival dominated the room with his presence; as if the pull of the earth didn’t affect him at all and he walked with his own gravity.

The strange didn’t seem to have the same effect on Bucky as he did on you, though, if anything, Bucky was subtly trying to keep you out of view. 

He didn’t answer the newcomer’s question.

“You can speak, Sergeant Barnes, I don’t mean any harm.” 

**He’s had military training. And Steve seems wary about him. If I can…**

**…according to the reports, his arm is made out of adamantium. Capable of…**

“If you don’t mean any harm,” Steve said slowly. “Then what are you doing here, Director Fury?” 

The man, Fury, turned to face the blonde and with a jolt of surprise, you realized that he only had one eye; his left eye was covered by a black eye patch, presumably to cover an old injury. Despite the cover, though, you could see spidery scars around his eye, looking as if they were creeping out from under the patch.

The sight of it made your skin crawl. 

“I received several strange reports about a certain mind-reader who broke into the house of one of our agents. She wanted information on the Winter Soldier.”

You felt Bucky’s spine stiffen at being referred to as the Winter Soldier, but it was nothing compared to the scream of rage that you could feel tearing past your throat.

An agent?

_Reports?!_

“I didn’t break into her house!” you yelled, causing every eye in the room to turn to you.

You felt like screaming, you felt like breaking something, worst of all, you felt like finding Amanda and ripping her throat out. You felt like reaching out to her thoughts and ordering her never to interfere with your life, to forget that she ever met you, to—

The image of the prisoner flooded your mind, the holes in his gums where his teeth should have been, sluggishly oozing blood, the cuts on his wrists and ankles from where his restraints have dug in.

Guilt made your throat close and your fingers unconsciously curled into the back of Bucky’s shirt. 

Murder. You had killed that man. Killed him with your _powers_.

As much as you hated Amanda, you didn’t want her to die. Certainly not like that…

**You okay?**

Startled, you looked up at Bucky, whose face gave no indication of his thoughts.

But it was his voice that you had heard.

“She speaks,” Fury said, looking amused. “I was beginning to think that you were mute.” 

You had the sudden urge to throw something at him. 

**No reports yet on the extent of her power…**

**Looking straight at my eyes, no facial tics. It’s possible that she’s not lying.**

“I’m _not_ lying! She let me into her house!” you snapped.

Instead of answering, Fury simply stared at you.

A moment later, you heard a string of words, still in Fury’s voice. 

私が言うことを分かりますか [1]

You frowned at him. “What?” 

“You’re unable to understand thoughts that are in languages that you’re unfamiliar with,” Fury said. “That’s…interesting.”

“What do you want?” Bucky barked. Once again, he stepped in front of you, blocking you from view. 

Steve’s eyes flicked to his friend and he made a calming sign with his hands.

“Fury…” the blonde’s voice just held the tiniest bit of warning to it. 

“I told you, Captain Rogers. I mean no harm. To Sergeant Barnes or…the mind-reader.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Sam asked. Though both he and Steve seemed to know the man, his posture was defensive, arms crossed over his chest and his face set in a scowl.

Fury’s attention shifted back to you and Bucky and you realized that his thoughts now all in Japanese; you couldn’t understand a thing.

His face was equally as unreadable.

“I’m here to recruit you,” he said. Fury spoke with such gravity that you felt chills break out across your skin. 

“Absolutely not,” Sam broke in. “She’s a civilian and Barnes is still on the run from HYDRA.”

“And the Avengers—” Steve began.

“I’m not talking about the Avengers, Captain Rogers,” Fury interrupted. “Like Wilson said, the mind-reader is a civilian. And Barnes is wanted for several crimes as the Winter Soldier. Neither of them is a prime candidate for the Avengers Initiative.” 

The way the man stared at you made you feel like you were being X-rayed, though you were still partially hidden by Bucky’s large frame.

“Then what are you talking about?” Bucky said, his voice a low growl.

**…wanted for several crimes.**

**Should keep me locked away.**

“A place where I know that your…skills will be put to good use. Without putting either of you in the kind of spotlight that being an Avenger would entail. Tell me, what have you heard about the organization S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1]: It translates to: “Can you understand me?”. Forgive the Japanese if it’s wonky. Not being able to speak Japanese myself, I had to use an online translator, and we all know how great those things are. Using my own native (non-English) language just felt gratuitous in the situation. 
> 
> At any rate, I hope you enjoyed, despite the long wait!


	15. Hiraeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my name is Morveren and I write more angst when I know I should be reviewing for an exam. 
> 
> P.S.
> 
> Dearly sorry for the late update, I’ve been so busy this past month that I barely had time to sit down and write. I have an exam tomorrow that I’m procrastinating over and I wrote this during my study break. Kinda hard to find inspiration to write when you come home stinking of formalin and having to scrape dead matter of your scrubs.
> 
> I just wanted to thank everyone who commented on this story, the one thing that keeps me going with this story sometimes is the idea that people, _actual people_ enjoy the stuff I put on to paper. Thank you!

*****

 

If anyone besides you had been listening to the conversation, they would have said that the entire room turned silent. 

For you, however, it was as if somebody had turned on numerous radios all at once and you had to clap your hands over your ears to silence the voices.

**It’s collapsed ever since…**

**Does this mean that Widow’s working for Nick again?**

**What about all the other agents…**

You were starting to feel a bit woozy and you found yourself wishing that you had never left the 

**Wasn’t that the organization that HYDRA…**

**Every secret has been released to the internet.**

**HYDRA would never allow…**

You could hear Nick Fury’s thoughts, weaving in and out of the other men’s voices, this time in what seemed like German.

“Enough,” Nick’s voice cut smoothly across the tide of thoughts, giving you something to focus on. You squashed the sudden flare of gratitude that arose at the back of your head, reminded yourself that you know nothing of this man, that he had been in contact with Amanda. 

For all you know, he could have been the one who ordered Amanda to put you in the asylum.

In a flash of cold sweat, you realized that Nick Fury may have some very damaging information about you. In your mind, the flames that consumed your home burned high against the dark sky. There were no stars that night, you remembered. No moon, no stars. Just fire. 

Sam was the first to speak, his voice dripping with ill-disguised sarcasm. “Yeah, because we’ve been so talkative up until now.”

Instead of answering the man, Nick leveled a gaze at you and you had to suppress the shiver that ran down your spine. 

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he said simply.

Bucky let out a low growl, looking from you to Nick, searching for a threat that wasn’t there.

You didn’t like this Nick Fury; he spoke like a man who knew all of your secrets and knew exactly what to do with them.

**I don’t like him, either.**

You nodded in response to Bucky’s thoughts, felt his metal fingers gently curl around yours to comfort you.

“Nick,” Steve said slowly as if he could tell just how close the room was to the boiling point. “S.H.I.E.L.D.’s dead, remember? It was disbanded after…after Project Insight.”

His eyes flicked to Bucky, who sagged against you.

**Was that something I did, too? How many…**

You squeezed your friend’s hand to comfort him, though it didn’t seem to have much of an effect. Self-hate seemed to rise off him like heat.

“I know.” A flicker of emotion flashed through Nick Fury’s face as he spoke, so quick that it was there and gone before you could even comprehend what it was. 

“We’re rebuilding it. Starting anew. With better agents. Good ones. People I can trust.”

“And a girl you’ve just met is someone you can trust?” Sam asked. “A girl who incidentally can read minds.”

“One of our agents has vouched for her, if she wants to join, we can put her unique abilities to use.”

“And the Winter Soldier?” Bucky spat out the name as if it tasted foul in his mouth. 

Steve shifted uneasily. “Nick, he’s my friend. I can’t let you take him if…”

“Sergeant Barnes, you are one of the most skilled fighters I’ve seen—you’ve beaten some of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best agents, including Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton.” He paused here to see if his words had any effect on Bucky, but the other man’s face was still as stone.

“You’ve stolen information from heavily-guarded facilities, you’ve killed people under my protection. Not to mention—”

“Stop.” The word was out of your mouth before you even realized you had spoken, had nearly looked to Steve as the source of the sound. You didn’t care what Nick Fury thought he knew about Bucky, the things that he can enumerate off the top of his head like a list. 

And that’s exactly what it was: a list. Cut and dried information, to be picked off a shelf, one that had nothing to do with the nightmares, the electric shocks or the tears that you’ve never seen Bucky shed.

For all Nick Fury knew about the things Bucky did, he knew nothing about the man underneath, the man you could feel trembling beneath the weight of all the things he did. All the things he was forced to do.

Once again, the image of the prisoner flashes through your mind.

Nick was silent for several minutes and when he next spoke he said, “So that’s what it feels like.”

With a jolt, you realized that you had once again, ordered someone to do something against their will. Shame bubbled up in your gut. 

**…killed people under S.H.I.E.L.D.’s protection.**

**He shouldn’t have said those things.**

**Why would he rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D.?**

The last question was answered, however, when Nick Fury spoke again, “The world is changing. I’m sure you all know that. There will come a time when someone—something else will come to Earth with less than…altruistic designs on us. We’ve seen it during the Battle of New York, when Ultron tried to extinguish all human life by turning Sokovia into a meteor. When that time comes, we can’t rely on brute strength alone, we can’t rely on the Avengers alone. We need information, agents who will help us prepare for the next battle.” He paused here and this time, you can hear real sorrow in his voice. “If we had done that before, maybe we could have minimized the casualties. That’s what S.H.I.E.L.D. should have been about.” 

“You could help us save people,” Nick finished quietly. “I admit, it’s not as cushy as being an Avenger—”

“You want us to work from the shadows,” Bucky said sharply. “Like a spy.” 

**Or an assassin.**

Nick met the other man’s gaze without flinching. “Yes. Besides that, S.H.I.E.L.D. can protect you. We’ve long been an enemy of HYDRA because they represent exactly what we’re fighting against. Rest assured, Sergeant Barnes, we will not let them take you again.”

A sharp inhale told you that the words hit deep.

**Minimizing casualties…saving people.**

**Could I even…**

“Think it over, you don’t have to answer now.” He handed you a cell phone, a nondescript model with only one number in the contacts named “Athena”. 

“Use that if you want to contact me, then destroy it. Good day to you all.”

Without another word, Fury left, leaving the room feeling strangely empty without his presence. 

“Buck, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Steve said softly.

“Yeah, man,” Sam added. “The Avengers would…well, they’re an odd bunch, but they’re never one to turn down another member. Stark would—”

“ _Stark_.” A humorless little laugh bubbled up Bucky’s throat and he slipped away, his boots barely making any noise as he leaves the room. 

The three of you stare at each other, trying to comprehend the situation that just fell into your laps. 

After several minutes, Sam let out a string of curses, “Asshole didn’t even offer to clean up!”

“It was me,” you squeaked. “I’m sorry, I’ll clean it up!” 

You move to the sink, trying to look for paper towels or maybe an old rag.

“That goes for you too, you know.”

You freeze just as you turned on the faucet to wet the cloth in your hand, felt Sam’s hand rest on your shoulder.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re being forced to join S.H.I.E.L.D., if you don’t feel like it, we can always find something for you to do. Hell, now that Widow’s back in action, we could even alter your records. Get you a new job, go back to your father, live a normal life.”

Normal. The word hung in the air, heavy with all the implications.

“I don’t think I ever had a normal life,” you said quietly. It sounded dramatic, like a line a soap opera character should deliver while wearing at least a pound of eyeliner and the latest clothes from Hot Topic. 

But instead of snorting, Sam laughed. “Yeah, after what you’d just experienced, the real world feels kinda surreal, doesn’t it?”

You nodded, wondering if he experienced something like that when he first joined the Avengers.

**After the war…**

**Riley…**

“Ma’am.” Steve’s deep voice made you turn. “Sam’s right. If you don’t feel like joining S.H.I.E.L.D., you don’t have to, we’re not going to kick you out on the street if you refuse.”

“Do you think I should?” you asked. The man always looked so calm, as if he never stumbled, as if he always knew the right thing to do at the right time. 

But instead of answering, Steve simply tipped his head at you with a smile that made you realize just how handsome he was when all the worry lines were gone from his face. “I think that you’ve had enough of people telling you what to do, Ma’am.”

****

*****

You found Bucky just after midnight, lying on the couch but obviously not sleeping.

He must have heard you approach because he raised his voice and said, “Steve? It’s the middle of the night for Christ’s sake—”

“It’s me.”

Bucky stopped his rant almost immediately. 

When he next spoke, his voice was low, carefully controlled. “Sorry ‘bout that, Steve’s been ridin’ my ass about this S.H.I.E.L.D. thing, been naggin’ me worse than my ma.” He tried for a smile, one that trembled around the edges. 

The mention of Steve brought up a sharp, strange sensation that jackknifed through your gut. You felt your cheeks flush, knowing full well what it was and hating yourself for feeling it.

Jealousy.

Because Steve was Bucky’s friend too, his best friend, the one he had made all those happy memories with. 

You were just someone he met through a freak accident, your days filled with nothing but paranoia and frightened over-the-shoulder glances.

Sooner or later, he’d tire of dragging someone who couldn’t be anything more than dead weight. You had no illusions on just how much you contributed to his rescue, to the many days and nights the two of you had spent on the run: absolutely zero. You couldn’t even begin to count the number of times Bucky had stepped in front of you to shield you from a threat, had taken down enemies while you simply stood and stared. 

“Come on, sweetheart, I didn’t mean t’yell at you, honest.” His voice broke through your thoughts and you found yourself being pulled back to the present. Bucky was sitting up on the couch, cautiously patting the space beside him in invitation. 

You took the proffered seat and found yourself wanting to lean against him. You had spent most of the day hanging out with Sam, learning how to play checkers, getting taught how to make quesadillas and had even spent most of the evening trading stories about your adventures.

Sam had acted impressed when you told him how the leader of one of the strike groups had opened the door to your closet, stared straight at you and saw empty space.

“Don’t go trying to use that when Barnes is in the shower, though,” he said and roared with laughter when you turned pink.

Though it was fun, you found that when you finally lay back in bed that night, you couldn’t get Nick Fury’s words out of your mind.

He had said that S.H.I.E.L.D. saved people. 

Could someone like you really do that? Given how you’d responded to the past emergencies, you doubted it. 

**…scared of me…**

**Who the hell is awake at two in the morning?**

“What d’you come down here for, sweetheart?” Bucky grinned, meaning it this time. “Missed me?”

You couldn’t help but smile at this. “No, I figured you missed me.” 

Bucky rubbed his chin as if in thought, “Well, can’t say it ain’t nice to see your pretty face, no matter what time of the day it is.” 

He turned serious as he continued to stare at you, however. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Nick Fury,” you confessed.

Bucky let out a low growl at this. “He get inside your head, too?” His entire body tensed and you heard the telltale sound of his arm whirring. 

“I thought that was my job,” you said, trying to lighten the mood. 

He ruffled your hair almost absentmindedly and then mumbled, “Knew exactly how to press my buttons, he did.”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Mine, too.”

When Bucky didn’t respond, you spoke again, “Do you want to join?”

The man let out a huff of laughter, runs his hand through his hair, and then scowled when several strands snag against the metal plating. 

“Dunno, sweetheart, do you think I’d actually be good at helping people? All I’ve…” Here he faltered. “All I’ve ever done is hurt them.” 

**They said I had the single highest kill rate in HYDRA history…**

“You helped me,” you protested.

At this, Bucky let out a sudden laugh, one that caused you to jump slightly, so loud it had sounded in the silence of the living room. 

“Sweetheart, I _ruined_ you.” And his voice was thick with regret. “You had a life, a job, your dad…and you lost all that because you helped me.”

“Yeah, well,” you mumbled. “Wasn’t much of a life, anyway.”

As soon as you let the words go, you wished that you could take it all back. Here you were sitting with a man who has undergone the very extremes of torture and you were complaining about long shift hours, the father who may or may not be dating the woman who sent you to an asylum. Even the pills and the never-ending doctors seemed like heaven compared to what Bucky went through.

And he was staring at you like he’s never seen you before. 

Your cheeks burned with shame.

“You’re gonna have to tell me about that, sometime,” he said. 

He then faked a yawn that didn’t fool anyone, but you were grateful for all the same.

“It’s late,” he muttered. “Why don’t we both go back to sleep? Our problem’ll still be there in the morning.” 

You don’t move from the spot.

“Bucky?” you asked, not daring to look him in the eye. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I stay here?” 

He didn’t answer for one, two, three breaths. 

When he finally spoke, it was with that same, controlled tone he had used on your earlier. 

“Is the bed up in the guest room hurting your back?” he asked, though the two of you knew that wasn’t the case.

“No, I just don’t want to be alone right now.”

The corners of his mouth twitched in an almost-smile. “Yeah, I can understand that, c’mere.”

He pulled you down onto the couch with him and it was so narrow that the two of you were pressed close against one another. You could feel his every movement, could even feel the pulse in his flesh arm as you pressed your cheek against it.

“You all right, sweetheart? I know it’s a bit of a squeeze.” His breath fluttered your hair when he spoke. 

“I am. Thank you. You?”

“Never better.” 

The two of you fall silent again, listening to the tick of Sam’s living room clock. 

This time, it was Bucky who spoke first.

“I ever told you about that time that Steve and I went to the beach and he nearly got swept out to sea?” 

You smiled, though you knew that he couldn’t see it in the darkness. “No.”

“Well, I was trying to convince him to try out surfing…”

You listened to the steady drone of his voice, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed and felt a deep sense of peace fall over you. You didn’t know exactly when it happened, but you had grown used to this nightly ritual of yours, had missed it in the days the two of you had spent apart.

As you made yourself more comfortable, only slightly bothered by the weight of his metal arm resting against your hip, something occurred to you. 

Though God knows you’ve had very little in the way of socialization, even you knew that people who were simply friends did not act like this.

And with an impatient huff of breath, you sternly reminded yourself not to ruin the one good thing you’ve had in a long time.


	16. Limirence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe me, this wasn’t supposed to turn out as angst.
> 
> But it did. 
> 
> And I regret nothing. 
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone who commented on this story! I love reading your comments, what you readers thought of the chapter, the character, what you want to see. It’s all so inspiring to see people enjoy what I write. Thank you!

Cold metal gently brushes across your face and in your sleep-addled state, you couldn’t help but pull the blanket over your head. 

Not that you had any right to complain, but Sam should really turn up the heat in his apartment.

Someone’s chuckling, though you’re not sure if it’s a dream or a voice or…

**Cute.**

“I hope to God the two of you didn’t have sex on my couch.” Sam’s voice broke through the sleepy haze that was just starting to overtake you. Not enough to wake you, but enough that you couldn’t fall asleep. 

“Shut up, Wilson.” That one was Bucky. 

“I’m just saying, man. If I see any stains…”

“You’re disgusting, you know that?” 

“Because I care about my furniture?”

You could feel yourself turning red at Sam’s words and you felt glad that the blanket was covering your face. The whoosh of a stove as it was turned on, the creak of metal against metal as Sam placed something, maybe a kettle or a pan, on top of it. 

The hum of the coffee machine. 

“We didn’t have sex on your couch, Wilson. Happy?”

“Maybe not have sex, maybe oh, I don’t know make love?” 

**What the hell is wrong with this guy?**

**I love being a morning person.**

“No.” From the way the word came out, you guessed that Bucky was gritting his teeth. 

“But you wanted to?”

“She’s right here.” 

“And asleep,” Sam countered happily. “Guess you exhausted her, huh?” 

You weren’t coming out from under the blanket anytime soon. Not while you felt like your face was on fire. 

“We didn’t do anything, Wilson,” Bucky said in exasperation.

“So your game is weak. Gotcha.” 

**There’s no winning with him.**

You could hear somebody’s heavy footsteps, then Steve’s deep voice, “Good morning, everyone.”

“Morning, Steve.”

“Hey, Stevie,’ 

The laugh that erupted from Steve’s chest startled you, nearly making you fall off the couch. 

**He hasn’t called me that in a long time.**

“She still asleep?” Steve asked. 

“Wouldn’t be for long if you two clowns keep making so much noise,” Bucky grumbled. 

“I did set her up in the guest room,” Sam said and even with the blanket covering your vision, you could practically sense the smug grin that accompanied his sentence. “Guess that the couch had something that the guest room didn’t.”

“Or someone,” Steve supplied.

“Are you two done?” The couch creaked as Bucky moved off it and you found yourself missing his warmth, despite the fact that you were already feeling quite overheated with the blanket bundled around you.

“Sorry, man,” Sam said, laughing. “I mean, seriously. Aren’t you—?” 

“She was pretty worried back when you were captured,” Steve said, tacking on. “Didn’t sleep much. Hardly ate, either. Are you sure that there’s nothing between the two of you?”

“No.”

**And there won’t be.**

At this point, you were glad that the kettle started boiling because you let out a tiny gasp at Bucky’s words. Though you knew it even before Bucky said it, had known that he wouldn’t be interested in someone like you still, it had been…it had been nice to hope, to fantasize that maybe…maybe…

Well, no chance of that now, is there?

You hated yourself for the searing pain you felt in your chest, the sudden drop in your stomach, the heat forming behind your eyes.

The voices had started up again.

**Like a little puppy when we first saw her.**

**It doesn’t look like he’s angry with me now. Maybe I could…**

**Don’t deserve…**

Yet all the voices the voices, the thoughts fell quiet at the sound of another voice at the back of your head. One you knew quite well, one that had nothing to do with your mind-reading or schizophrenia. 

_And why_ , it said, a nasty little thing with a voice like a wasp’s. _Would he be interested in you? Crazy. College dropout. Can’t hold a job longer than two months. A burden on her father._

“Shut up,” you whispered quietly, so low that you were sure that none of the men heard.

It does. And for a minute, you breathed a sigh of relief.

Then it starts talking again, only this time it says a single word, one that goes straight to your spine, sending chills down your vertebra.

_Arsonist._

You shot straight up on the couch, throwing the blankets off of you, realizing that you were covered in cold sweat.

“Hey, hey, you okay?” Sam asked. He was already walking towards you, his expression concerned.

_Don’t be more of a burden to them than you already are._

“I’m okay,” you stammered. “Just…You know, nightmare.”

“Didn’t seem like any old nightmare,” Sam protested. You took a second to appreciate just how different he was with Bucky, all jokes and friendly insults and all concern and caring with you.

Did you really look that pathetic?

You realized that you were shivering and made a conscious effort to stop.

“You okay, sweetheart?” 

Bucky’s voice pulled you from your thoughts and you forced yourself to concentrate on him. His chestnut hair was adorably rumpled and his eyes were still bleary from sleep. 

He was clutching a mug of coffee, tendrils of steam gently rising from the surface.

And your imagination was in overdrive; suddenly it wasn’t Sam’s house, it was in your apartment, still with that same messy hair, the same sleepy eyes. Only this time he was smiling, happier than you had ever seen him. 

His lips forming a question that he already knew the answer to, tone more teasing than anything, “You okay, sweetheart?”

Your eyes burned as you turned away, pretending that you have something in them.

Your chest burned with the knowledge that you were never going to have that with Bucky or anyone else.

Crazy people don’t get love stories. 

They get lobotomies, they get pills, they get the asylum while a pretty young thing fucks their father. 

You silently berated yourself for being so dramatic.

“I’m fine,” you said and you were proud of the way your voice doesn’t crack. “I just…I need to take a shower.”

You did not miss the way Bucky’s eyes followed your back as you make your way to Sam’s shower.

****

*****

Bucky and Steve are gone by the time you exit the shower and for once, you breathed a sigh of relief at the knowledge that your friend wasn’t around. 

“They went out for a jog.”

You let out a startled squeak as your vision focused on Sam, still sitting at the table, a stack of pancakes and a mug of coffee in front of him. 

He pushed it toward you as you came near.

“It’s yours. I already ate while you were in the shower.”

“Did I take that long?” you mused. The hot water had helped a lot to clear your head and by the time you had started drying your hair, you had half-convinced yourself that it was all just a result of hormones or the turning of the moon or something equally ridiculous.

“No, but the water company just called and said that their reservoirs had just about run dry.” 

You felt a flush of heat creep up your neck as you remembered that you were basically free-loading off Sam.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

If anything, his frown deepened. “You need to stop apologizing so much, kid.”

“Sor—oh,” you stopped, not knowing what to say. 

“And you need to stop feeling so guilty about every damn thing, too. Eat.” 

Not knowing how to answer that, you sat down and obeyed Sam, keeping your eyes on the plate, though you were sure that he was staring at you. 

**Good. Girl needs more meat on her bones.**

**Finally, the house is clean. I hope the kids don’t mess it up.**

**Netflix day. I swear to God there is nothing better than Netflix day.**

“So have you thought about what Nick had said?” you heard him say.

Mouth still stuffed full of pancakes, you risked a glance at him. He was frowning at you over his mug of coffee, but not like he was angry. More like he was thinking. 

You took your time chewing and swallowing; the conversation you had overheard between the three men had all but driven Nick Fury from your mind.

“It’s not like I have much of a choice,” you said thoughtfully. 

Sam’s eyebrows shot up at your statement, but you were too busy pondering over your options to notice. 

“I can’t go back to my old job at The Sweet Tooth, I’m still technically being hunted by HYDRA and I can’t freeload off you forever. I—I mean. It’s a job, right?”

In your head, you tried to compare it to your job as a barista back at the café. The constant buzzing of thoughts from the patients, the way you were always just on the edge of exhausted from the pills you took…it wasn’t a time you looked back on with fondness. Idly, you wondered if you could even maintain the concentration required to be a spy. 

Mixing cappuccinos and making the change had been hard enough, but a spy?

You imagined yourself dressed up in a suit like Sean Connery wore in the Bond films, leaning against the counter of a fancy bar, exuding the kind of confidence that only a super-spy could, as ordered a vodka martini—shaken, not stirred. 

The silly image made you giggle, your shoulders shaking with mirth. God, if you kept this up, Sam really will think that you’re crazy.

“What’s so funny?” Sam asked.

“Just imagining myself as a spy,” you said, still trying to hold back your laughter. “It really doesn’t look good on me.”

“You’re telling me. When Tony said that he was going to build me a suit, my first thought was how ridiculous I’d look with my underwear on the outside,” Sam said smiling. 

You had the vivid, mental image of Sam wearing a thong on top of some very tight leather pants and started laughing harder. In the back of your head, you worried that you might be annoying Sam, but instead, he simply chuckled.

“Yeah, didn’t think the look would fit me, either.”

“I think you’d look great in a costume like that, Sam,” you said, innocently. “You’d have all the girls in New York throwing themselves off buildings so you could catch them, and then they’d get to faint in your arms.”

Sam grinned, obviously rolling with it. “Sorry, as much as I’d love to have flocks of women throw themselves at me, I don’t think I’d ever recover from flashing the world my Batman underwear.”

He waited patiently for your laughter to die down before he started getting serious again.

“So will you take Nick’s offer?” he asked.

You stared at him unsure of what to say. 

**Ohmygod, I can’t believe the writers killed off—**

**The plants aren’t doing so well in this weather.**

**If you’re looking for answers here, kid, you ain’t getting any.**

The last voice had been Sam’s and he smiled at the expression on your face.

“I’d rather you make the decision on your own.”

You felt a flush creeping up your neck. “Sorry.”

He gave you a curious look. “You can’t help it, can you? Reading minds, that is.”

“No. I can’t. In fact, I—” You cut yourself off, unwilling to say more. You had told Bucky because…well, he was Bucky. He had saved you more times than you can count, had told you stories about his childhood until you had fallen asleep. 

**He was your friend.**

Just a friend. Though you felt another sharp sting at the thought. You rubbed at your chest unconsciously, still hearing the weight behind his words when he had answered Steve’s question.

Stupid, to think he’d be interested in someone like you. 

“You?” Sam questioned, drawing out the word.

“Do you actually think I could do it?” you blurted out. It had been preying on your mind since Fury had brought up the idea, had said that your mind-reading, the very thing that had gotten you locked in an asylum for two long years could be used to save people.

Maybe you weren’t the sort of person that men fell in love with, but if Fury was telling the truth, then…maybe you could be the sort of person who saved lives instead.

The thought made the sting ease, if not entirely disappear. 

But still, the way Bucky had said “no” lingered in the back of your head. Had he really been that disgusted with you? 

You had another mental image, this time far less funny than the idea of Sam in his underwear. It was off you, back at the asylum, lying down on your cot (was there anything else to do in that God-forsaken place?), a thin line of drool seeping out of the side of your mouth. You, too tired to lift your hand and wipe it off, too tired to care. The strands of hair that you could see on your pillow looking brittle and colorless (when was the last time you washed it?). 

Could someone like that really save people?

“Hey, hey, you okay?” Sam’s voice shook you out of your thoughts.

You forced yourself to smile. 

“Uhm, yeah. Sorry. Just got lost in my thoughts.”

“You looked like you were having a nightmare with your eyes open.”

“No, no. I was just um…thinking. If I could do it. You know. Save people. Help them. I’ve never—I’ve never done anything like that before.”

**Fingers drumming on the table, doesn’t meet my eyes. She was lying just now.**

*****

Today was a good day.

Steve Rogers refused to think of it as anything but. 

The sun felt warm against his skin, his muscles ached—a good ache—from running and he had Bucky.

When Steve had invited him for a jog, he had expected Buck to refuse. But instead, his friend had shrugged and simply followed him out the door. 

That was another thing that Steve had noticed. 

Before…before their last mission, Bucky had talked smoothly, laughed easily, exchanged jokes with the rest of the Howling Commandos. 

Now, he was a near-silent figure at Steve’s side, giving the occasional one-word answer to Steve’s questions. The hair that he usually kept neat and slicked back nearly reached his shoulders and he had a habit of running his hand through it. Where the old Bucky had walked with a slight swagger, this Bucky kept his shoulders hunched, as if he was expecting an attack at any second.

It felt as if HYDRA had taken away his best friend and had replaced him with this silent stranger.

As soon as he allowed the thought to cross his mind, Steve felt sickened with himself. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault, what happened to him. It was HYDRA’s fault, they had taken his best friend, turned him into a mindless killing machine, had pumped him full of—

Dammit.

Deep breaths, Steve. This was supposed to be a good day.

“Huh.”

Bucky’s voice broke him out of his thoughts.

At once, Steve felt alert, what was it that caught his friend’s attention. Did he see any sign of danger? HYDRA soldiers? Drones? Where did—

“Used to be dames got kicked off the beach for wearin’ something that short.”

Steve followed Bucky’s line of sight, where it rested on a couple of beachgoers, some of whom were wearing string bikinis. 

He snorted. Figured that would be the first thing Bucky would notice.

“Yeah, a lot has changed since our time.”

Bucky looked amused. “Our time, huh? Always knew you were an old man at heart, Stevie.”

Stevie. That name again. Bucky had a habit of giving nicknames and he always associated “Stevie” with the small, diminutive man he was before the serum, the one who always needed his old friend Buck to come and rescue him. 

Back then, he found himself resenting it at times.

But now, when he towered over people at over six feet tall, bearing the title “Captain America”, he sometimes felt like he didn’t like that, either. Too much responsibility, too many long days of loneliness with no one to talk to, no one to understand. 

It seemed to Steve that he was always uncomfortable with the skin he was in.

“You’re one to talk, Buck.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew it. “What’s with the caveman hairdo?”

Bucky barked out a short laugh, running his fingers through it again. 

“Didn’t have time for a haircut, what with being on the run and all.” Though he said the words easily enough, Steve did not miss the whirring noise Bucky’s arm made as he spoke. 

That damn arm.

When had HYDRA replaced it? Had he lost it when he fell down the ravine? Had HYDRA cut it off?

Did he ever wonder why Steve never came for him? 

“You all right there, Stevie?” Bucky asked.

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say.

Bucky paused and Steve noted that he was sporting the beginning of a beard, too. A five’o clock shadow that the old Bucky would have shaved off in an instant; he had hated looking untidy.

“’Bout what?” Buck asked, though from the tone of his voice, he already knew what Steve was going to say.

“I never looked for you. After.”

“We were at war, Steve,” Bucky said, gently. “They weren’t going to pull out all stops for a single missin’ soldier. Even if it was Captain America’s best friend.”

His words didn’t make the guilt any easier, and Bucky seemed to understand, because instead of continuing the conversation, he changed topics.

“So, how has the world changed while I was asleep?”

Steve gratefully seized at the opportunity to change the topic. It was too raw still, too painful, especially with that metal arm catching the rays of morning sun, reminding him of—

“You wouldn’t believe how much technology has changed, Buck. They have these little boxes called—”

“Cell phones? Yeah, she showed me.”

Steve didn’t need to ask who he meant, it was obvious he was talking about you.

“Seemed a little too attached to it, though,” Bucky mused.

“Yeah, Sam can’t seem to let go of his, either,” Steve supplied.

They caught each other’s eye, held it for a moment and then burst out laughing. It surprised him how good it felt to laugh again.

“We really do sound like a couple of old men,” Bucky said, shaking his head. 

“Technically, we are,” Steve said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky said, feigning innocence. Then his expression turned serious. “You know what I meant Steve, how’re you holding up?”

Steve opened his mouth to answer, couldn’t think of anything to say and closed it again.

Typical of Bucky. Steve had invited him to talk about his issues and the first thing he wanted to talk about was Steve.

It felt good, he realized, being prioritized for once. No greater goal, no world to save, no sacrifices; just a friend asking after another friend. 

He sat down next to Bucky on the bench.

“Not good,” he confessed.

His friend remained silent, listening. 

“You know most of our friends are dead?” he asked. “Most of the Howlies, too.”

“Some of them are still alive, though,” Bucky pointed out. “Happy Sam and Pinky. Others too.”

Steve remembered seeing the stack of papers you had on you when you first met him, had remembered seeing you give them to Bucky soon after they rescued him. In his mind’s eye, he could see your legs tucked underneath you, mumbling something about what you had researched, Bucky’s eyes not on the paper, but on you. 

“And Peggy?” 

Steve didn’t answer. 

At first, he had been ecstatic that Peggy was still alive, that he had at least one connection back to his old life. 

Now, the mere act of thinking about her hurt.

He heard Bucky sigh. 

“Bad, huh?” Bucky ruffled his hair briefly, and Steve had the sudden impression of being sixteen again. “M’sorry to hear that. Knew how sweet you are on her.”

“She’s ninety-five now,” Steve said quietly. 

And still as beautiful as the day Steve met her. Still had that stern, no-nonsense air that pulled him to her.

“Tough,” Bucky murmured. 

A few moments of solemn quiet when Bucky said, “Hey, maybe it can still work out—”

“Buck…”

“Always knew you were into the freaky stuff.”

And Steve was laughing again. It wasn’t a good joke, it was a terrible joke and it was just so like Bucky to joke about something so serious just to get Steve’s spirits up.

His friend watched him with a lopsided grin, waiting until his laughter died down.

“What about _your_ dame, Buck?” Steve countered. “The one back at Sam’s house? I’ve seen the way you look at her. You kept glaring at Sam too, whenever he talked to her.”

“That’s because Wilson’s an idiot. He’s easy to hate,” Bucky said easily. Though judging by his grin, Steve could tell he didn’t mean it. 

Steve didn’t expect Bucky’s smile to slide off his face, his expression contorting into what seemed like pain.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Steve.” Bucky’s expression had turned serious. “I’m an ex-assassin for one of the most violent organizations in the world.”

He wanted to say that it wasn’t Bucky’s fault, that anyone would have broken under the torture that he had endured, that he shouldn’t punish himself for something that had been outside of his control but—

“Well, maybe she’s into the freaky stuff, too.”

Now it was Bucky’s turn to laugh, though Steve wasn’t all that kidding. He had seen the way you looked at Bucky, eyes all large and bright like a doe’s, the raw trust in them, had noted how Bucky seemed so protective of you, treated you almost as if you were fragile. 

He remembered how your fingers had curled into the back of Bucky’s shirt like you were drowning and he was a life-preserver.

You had told him once that you couldn’t ever stop hearing people’s thoughts and it obviously took a toll on you. 

Though Steve made sure to treat you well, just the thought of being around people seemed to intimidate you. Sometimes you reminded him of a fawn or some small woodland creature, the way you rocked on your heels as if you might bolt away at a moment’s notice. 

“She doesn’t need me to complicate her life,” Bucky said resolutely.

“Seems to me that you’re already sweet on her,” Steve observed.

Bucky was quiet for a few minutes, then jerked his head in a gesture that could have meant “yes” or “no”. 

“And she’s sweet on you,” he added.

“Steve.”

“I’m just saying, pal,” Steve said, thinking of Peggy. “If she can make you happy and you can make her happy, don’t waste your time getting hung up on what-ifs.” 

Judging by Bucky’s expression, it was obvious that he knew where Steve’s mind went.

“I’ll think about it,” he said doubtfully.

“That’s all I’m asking. After all, you could end up working together.”

“What, about that S.H.I.E.L.D. thing?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah. S.H.I.E.L.D. was…well, it had its problems before. But if Nick is rebuilding it, he must know what precautions to take in order to prevent them from happening again.”

“And this…Nick Fury. Is he trustworthy, Steve?”

The question took him aback and Steve found himself thinking not about Nick, but the Black Widow. Natasha Romanoff.

His co-worker. His partner. His friend. 

Natasha who had trouble trusting people barely trusted Steve himself at first, had faith in Nick Fury. Unquestionable, unshakeable faith. If Nick had done something to gain the trust of someone like Natasha, then he couldn’t be all bad.

“Yes,” Steve said slowly. “But I’d keep an eye on him all the same.”

Bucky nodded. “Thanks.”

They were quiet for a short while until Bucky spoke again; the most talking he has ever done since his rescue. “Think I still have it in me, Steve?”

“Still have what?” he asked.

Bucky stared at his metal arm, slowly clenching and unclenching his fist as if he wanted nothing more than to rip it off and fling it straight to the sea. 

“I don’t know. Saving people. Bettering lives. That kind of thing.” 

It hurt him to think that Bucky would ask this, that he doubted his capacity to…what? Be a good man?

Before the war, Buck had been the sort of person to help an old lady cross the street, carry somebody’s books for them. 

In fact, Steve had met his closest friend because Bucky had punched a kid who was making fun of Steve’s loose shirt and rolled-up pants.

He had been sent to the principal’s office fifteen minutes later, but after that incident, Billy Humphrey never said a word about Steve’s clothes again. 

“Yeah,” Steve said quietly. “I do.”

Bucky shot him a glance out of the corner of his eye.

“I nearly strangled her once, you know,” he said quietly. “Had a nightmare. Woke up and…it felt as if someone had flipped a switch in my brain. All I knew was that I had my orders, and she was getting in the way of them. Would’ve choked her to death if she hadn’t stopped me.”

Steve didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Everything HYDRA put in me is still there, Steve. I can feel it, just beneath the surface. Feels like I’m sitting on a bomb.” Bucky stared at his metal arm. Clenched it into a fist. “Just because I’m watching the fuse doesn’t mean it’s not going to explode.”

“You’re not just watching, Buck. You fight against it every day,” Steve said quietly. 

He didn’t know if could ever say it out loud, felt that he would just embarrass the two of them, but the things Bucky had been put through would break most people. Yet Bucky had come out the other side, still wanting to do good, to help people.

Steve admired the hell out of him for that. 

“And if I lose?” 

“S.H.I.E.L.D. has the best technology. Brilliant doctors. They can help you. _We_ can help you.”

Bucky glanced at Steve, skepticism plain on his face. But Steve could see hope there, too; like his friend had been offered a deal that was too good to be true, too tantalizing to refuse.

“You really think so, Stevie?”

Steve smiled, “Yeah, I do.”


	17. Ebullience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *flies in* No-I-am-not-dead-I-just-had-a-very-busy-month-that-included-a-shit-ton-of-neurology-because-med-and-I’m-really-sorry-but-it-can’t-be-helped-here’s-the-next-chapter.
> 
> *flies out*
> 
> Soooo. For some reason, AO3 ate the last part of reader’s portion in the last chapter and I noticed it too late. Have to somehow insert it into this chapter because I think that it’s an important part of Reader’s character development. 
> 
> And this is short. Apologies for this, but considering the shitload of work (*shakes fist at sky* screw you, neurology!) I’ve been having to do lately, I honestly, honestly didn’t have the energy to write much. In fact, I was considering putting up a hiatus until the end of the semester. But instead, I’ll have say that the updates will probably come slower than normal, at least until December 16, the end of our semester. Oh and the writing will probably be terrible too. Sorry everyone, this is really the best I can do for now. Peace out everyone!

You pretended not to hear Sam’s thoughts, instead tracing cracks on the table’s surface with your finger. Sam, however, wasn’t easily deterred. 

“Didn’t you get into this mess because you stopped Barnes from being captured by HYDRA?” he asked. 

“Yeah but—”

“And after he did get captured, your first impulse was to save him again, despite the danger.”

“I didn’t help much,” you protested. “Mostly just stood there and—”

“According to Steve, you were the one who managed to find Barnes’ cell, by interrogating one the men working there. And you did something that made a soldier drop a flash grenade on his own team.”

“That’s really not how it happened,” you protested. “Bucky and Steve did all the work.” 

In response, Sam simply hummed.

That’s not what Steve said. 

A flush of heat crept up your neck. Considering the kind of man Steve was, it was natural for him to play up what you did to Sam, just so you wouldn’t sound so useless. 

“No offense, kid, but I’ll take Captain America’s tactical assessment over yours. Even if he is an old man.” 

When you didn’t answer Sam said, “Look, it’s obvious that you want to. I get it. You want to be given the chance to help people. When Steve came up at my door, looking like he’s got a target painted on his back, I couldn’t refuse, either. I knew it was going to be hard, hell, maybe I wasn’t cut out for it. But _Captain America_ needed someone to watch his six and I was damn well going to try to be that guy for him.”

He paused, then added, “Never regretted it since.” 

You smiled. “When you put it that way…I mean, how could I refuse?”

Maybe it had been on your mind ever since your talk with Bucky. Maybe it had been there even before that since Nick Fury had first brought up the idea of using your mind-reading for…something worthwhile. Something other than pain and pills and years of countless therapy. 

But it had taken Sam’s apparent love and devotion to his job to solidify your decision.

“Sam?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks. Steve’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

“Did I mention that Barnes totaled my car maybe five hours after Steve asked for my help?” 

You giggled. “Did _I_ mention that HYDRA threw a bomb in my apartment after I let Bucky stay with me for the night?” 

**God, Barnes is one hell of a bad luck charm.**

****

*****

You had been staring at the phone screen for what felt like an eternity now, your thumb poised over the ‘call’ button.

_Athena._

The Greek Goddess of wisdom and reason. When you thought about it, Nick Fury had a downright cheeky side to him.

Either that or he was just a really big fan of Percy Jackson.

Though you told Sam that you were going to call Nick Fury and tell about your decision, you found yourself staring at the screen, unable to close the few centimeters that separated you from…well, whatever Fury was offering. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You blinked, looked up from the phone to find Bucky leaning on your doorway, a gentle smile on his face.

The image reminded you of the fantasy that your mind had created this morning in the kitchen, Bucky standing in your apartment, his expression playful and easy, almost teasing. You shook your head, feeling the thought cling to you like cobwebs.

Bucky had just gotten back from his jog with Steve, that much was obvious; his hair was still damp with sweat, beads of sweat on his forehead. But other than that, he looked…good. His eyes were shining brighter than you’ve ever seen them, his posture relaxed. Even his smile looked a lot more genuine.

It was a good look on him, you thought. Relaxed and safe and happy. 

“Sam told me that you had a talk with him.” Was it your imagination or did an annoyed expression cross his face just now?

You didn’t know what to say to that except, “Yeah.”

“He says that you’re going to call Fury.” His face gave nothing away but you could hear snatches of his thoughts.

**\--too dangerous—**

**Shouldn’t let her try…**

**Her decision.**

“Bucky.”

His thoughts stopped. 

“I want this.” As soon as you said it, you knew that it was true. You wanted this, the chance to help people, the chance to make a difference.

As soon as you said it, you knew that it was true. You wanted this, the chance to help people, the chance to make a difference.

The chance to be something more than a freak or an asylum patient or—

Your father’s daughter. Someone who was fragile and sick and needed protecting.

You felt your throat close at the realization. It felt like a betrayal of the man who had taken care of you for so long, of your best friend.

Bucky let his position on your doorstep and crossed the bedroom to get closer to you.

The bed dipped as he sat on it, even from this distance, you could feel his heat.

“All right if I sit?” he asked.

“You know, people usually for permission _before_ they do something.”

A flash of white teeth as he grinned down at you, “Guess I’m special then.”

**Wonder what they’d like for lunch…**

**Should really call Bucky down and…**

The feeling of his flesh hand running through your hair caused goose bumps to erupt along your arms, cold pins and needles bristling at the back of your neck. 

And yet—

It wasn’t a _bad_ feeling.

Quite the opposite, actually.

You didn’t want him to stop.

So close to Bucky like that, the heat of his hand along your scalp, the gentle smile on his face.

It was hard to concentrate.

“'m proud of you, sweetheart.”

You blinked. “What?” 

His fingers rubbed along the edge of your hairline and you prayed that he wouldn’t notice just how much of an effect this has on you. You could feel your eyelids growing heavier. 

On the run, the two of you never had time to be so…relaxed. Slow. It felt nice. 

More than nice.

**Wonder what time Lisa will be back?**

**Could stay like this forever…**

**Have to pick up the kids and…**

No one had ever touched you like this before. Most of the time it had been quick, nervous touches: a brief, one-armed hug, a pat on the head. They had all acted as if craziness was catching.

What had Bucky said again?

“I’m proud of you.”

And just like that the initial drowsiness was gone like you had been shocked with a live wire. Every muscle in your body tensed at the words and the places where Bucky had previously touched felt like they had lightning coursing through them.

“Hey, you okay?” Bucky immediately moved his hand away, his expression growing concerned. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean to be so touchy. I should’ve asked and—”

**Scared her, why did I—**

“No one’s ever told me that before.” 

Bucky froze, halfway from standing up from your bed. 

“ _What_?”

“No one’s ever been proud of me before,” you murmured. You let out a laugh as if the confession didn’t sting, “I mean, who would, right? You know I dropped out of college when—”

“Stop.”

You shut up. Bright blue eyes watched you and you had the impression that he was looking right _through_ you. Past the skin and muscle and bone, all the way down to your soul.

You wondered what he saw there.

“Your dad may have never said this to you, sweetheart. But I’m proud of what you did. What you’re doing. You broke into a HYDRA facility to save me. You could have stayed; you don’t have any combat skills. But you insisted on coming along. For me. You saw the things they did…the things I did. But you stayed. More than that, you…want to help. I’m proud of you, sweetheart, damn proud of you.” 

Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was just you getting your feelings mixed up (again), but you couldn’t help it. You sat up from your position on the bed and, ignoring the rush of vertigo, threw your arms around Bucky.

What—

For one terrible second, you thought he was going to push you away, that he was going to sneer at you and say that it was all an act, that someone’s got the camera rolling, that this was all some cruel prank—

Strong arms, one cold and one warm wrapped around you, as tight as anyone has ever held you. You actually felt yourself lift a few inches off the bed, but you didn’t care. A bubble of happiness was growing inside your chest, so big and so _overwhelming_ that you felt like you were going to burst.

Bucky was _proud_ of you. For once in your life, you did something _right_. And he was proud of you for it. 

**If I ever see that son of a bitch, I swear…**

When he finally let you down, you were wearing a smile that, by the laws of physics, should have split your face open.

“Thank you.”

He smiled and ruffled your hair affectionately. “No problem, kid.”

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“What about you?”

He didn’t even need to ask what you were talking about; sometimes you thought that maybe the two of you should switch places. He was _that_ good at reading you.

“Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on you and Stevie, make sure that you don’t set your asses on fire.”

You laughed at this, feeling the bubble inside you grow and grow.

Was it possible for a person to be this happy?

“And Sam?” you asked eagerly.

“Wilson can go sit on a cactus.”

**I’ll probably have to save him, though. Steve seems to like him well enough.**

Well then.

You waved the phone that you had been staring at for the past hour.

“Should we call?”

“You need to ask?” Bucky said, grinning.

This time there was no hesitation when you pressed the button.

As you the phone tried to connect to Fury, you looked up from the screen to stare at Bucky.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“I just wanted you to know: I’m proud of you, too.”


	18. Halcyon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Long Author’s Note Incoming. **BRACE FOR IMPACT.**   
>  Oh, this was lots of fun! And now as we’re starting to delve more into what Reader will be doing with S.H.I.E.L.D., I finally decided to start working on her powers more! I had an idea of what the Reader can and can’t do, as well as her limitations, but only recently did I decide to sit down and do some research on how her powers translate into the Marvel universe.
> 
> So I’d like to ask **YOU** , yes, **YOU** the one reading this. What kind of powers do you want the Reader to manifest? Make it your story! If it’s within reason, I’ll definitely try to add it in. Hey, maybe it’s already on her roster of powers. 
> 
> Abby commented about the team meeting Dr. Strange and I’m definitely open to an arc that includes him. You all have such wonderful ideas, I’d love to hear them! 
> 
> Oh and I’ve been receiving some comments about the slow burn in the story. 
> 
> I admit, it must be frustrating for you guys to read how slow the romance is advancing. I totes know how you readers feel—I myself have been reading a fanfic that has nearly 40 chapters with the barest hint of romance—but personally I’d like to see some development on Bucky and Reader’s character before…uhm *wiggles eyebrows*. Fear not though, I have the “confession scene” planned out ~~and oh baby you’re not gonna like it~~ and I’m just so excited to get there. Thank you all for commenting and helping me write a story that I love. I don’t deserve you all.

*********

You carefully smoothed the non-existent wrinkles of the skirt you were wearing.

Didn’t people usually wear business attire for these things? This was, essentially, a job interview, right? You risked a sideways glance at Steve and Bucky; the two friends were wearing what were essentially leather jackets straight from the 70s. And Sam was wearing a shirt that had Captain America’s shield emblazoned at the front—successfully ignoring the reproachful looks that Steve sent him. 

But hell, these men looked like _supermodels_ compared to you. They could wear potato sacks and still look like they stepped off a runway. You suspected that Steve alone, with his Captain America image, could turn potato sacks into the next Hot Thing if he chose to.

You…didn’t expect to be that lucky. You were dressed in the most formal-looking thing you owned: a cotton skirt and a blouse that had definitely seen better days. 

Next to these men, you felt frumpy and inadequate. 

Didn’t spies wear snappy suits and tie? Super villains? Was that only in the movies? How were you supposed to construct a Golden Gun from a pen and a cuff link if you had no cuff links?

Not to mention—

**Goddammit, that stupid bitch is going to get what’s coming to her, you’ll see—**

**Omega-3 and Omega-6 fatty acids differ by…oh God, what was it again?**

You winced at put a hand to your head, trying to ease away the migraine that was already forming at the base of your skull.

Earlier, Steve had taken you aside and had asked if it wasn’t too much trouble for you to keep an eye out for possible HYDRA soldiers that could possibly still be looking for the two of you. 

You had agreed, of course, only for Sam to subtly hint that it would be good to have an extra pair of eyes on the lookout for possible threats an hour later.

To say that you were under a lot of pressure right now was an understatement.

What if you missed something? What if a HYDRA soldier wasn’t necessarily thinking about the mission to trick you? What if they had that horrible scrambler-thing and—

**What page was that again? God, this book is the size of a watermelon.**

**Several blocks away from the target location.**

**No other drones in sight.**

**That man doesn’t seem like he can outrun me, maybe I could…**

**Goddammit, I left behind the house keys again!**

**This shirt cost _how_ much?!**

“Ouch.” Pain lanced across your temples and you lifted a hand to your nose, half-expecting it to start bleeding again. To your surprise, your fingers came away devoid of blood.

That was…new. You hadn’t been around this many people in a long time. During your time on the run, Bucky had expressed a dislike for crowds and you found yourself agreeing with him. It was only now, weaving through the press of warm bodies did you realize how _stressful_ it was to be around a large crowd.

**…didn’t need to do that no, no, no.**

**Fuck, I forgot to take my vitamins again.**

**Why do you have to walk so fucking slow?**

You felt a warm hand on your shoulder and you knew who it was without even looking.

“All right?” Bucky muttered into your ear.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled. “Just…hate listening to all these thoughts.”

Bucky nodded, his eyes distant. He looked as uneasy as you felt, beads of sweat dotting his forehead, eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of HYDRA soldiers. You weren’t the only one who was uncomfortable right now.

**Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.**

**Going to be late, going to be _freaking_ late.**

**I hate my stupid, useless, sack-of-shit group mates.**

“How about you, you okay?” 

He looked surprised at the question but nodded all the same. The hand on your shoulder gave it a little squeeze.

“You lovebirds all right over there?” Sam threw over his shoulder.

Just a few days ago, you would have blushed and ducked your head. In fact, you could still feel the familiar heat growing on your face but—

“Are we there yet?” you whined at him.

Sam chuckled and said, “We’re close. Have to say that Fury never used this place as a headquarters before.” 

“A lot of his old foxholes were exposed when SHIELD broke down,” Steve said. “Maybe this is one of his new ones.”

He nodded towards an upcoming building, one of those old-fashioned houses that had flower pots hanging from the balcony and vines crawling up its walls. 

In your opinion, it kind of looked like it belonged to a stuffy old lady, not to a head spy of a secret organization. Suddenly, you felt a lot better about your frumpy getup.

**Is that everything? I’m not making another second trip to the grocery store…**

**God, it’s beginning to look like ramen month again.**

**….think I gained about five pounds, how on earth am I supposed to fit into my suit?**

The door to the complex opened, startling you; you hadn’t even noticed that Sam had rung the doorbell.

Standing at the threshold was a man you didn’t recognize at all. He was dressed in a shabby suit that fit oddly on him; stretching across the shoulders, the sleeves hanging past his wrists. Though he must have been tall, he was hunched over. 

The badly-maintained mustache and the thinning afro did not help his generally unkempt appearance. He refused to make eye contact with any of you.

**Maybe this is the wrong address?**

You felt your throat close as you heard the thought. _You_ had been the one to talk to Nick Fury on the phone. Maybe you had somehow gotten the address wrong? 

“Uh…Sir?” Sam began hesitantly. “We’re here to see a Nick Fury?” 

“Never heard of a Nick Fury,” the man said. He had a low, grating voice, probably from years of cigarette smoking.

“I—”

“We’re sorry to bother you, sir,” Steve cut in. “We must have gotten the wrong address.” 

“Yeah, I think you have.” 

Sam and Steve exchanged confused glances.

**Some sort of prank…**

**…maybe we should call him again.**

You blinked as a string of unintelligible words entered your head. German? Russian? A tourist, maybe? 

Bucky, on the other hand, scowled. “What the hell, Fury?”

At once, you snapped your head around, half-expecting to find the man standing behind you, like a jump scare in a really bad horror movie.

But instead, the old man chuckled, his voice smoother and deeper now. 

“Nice spot, Barnes.” As he spoke, he straightened up and he…changed somehow. Suddenly, he didn’t look like an old man in a frumpy suit. He looked sharper, more in control. Hell, all of a sudden his clothes looked like they fit a lot better.

Even the bushy mustache now looked more scholarly than messy.

Suddenly, the string of Russian (German?) language in your head made sense.

“You were the one thinking in the foreign language!” you blurted out. The last time, he had been thinking in Japanese. How many languages did this man know?

“Yes. I was hoping that you’d be able to recognize me.”

A pause. Then you felt your face heat up in shame. So it was some sort of test.

Great, you failed your employee before you even got to the job interview. 

“Hell, I didn’t even recognize you,” Sam said and you silently thanked whatever God made this wonderful man.

“Do you really think it’s fair to test her on that when she only met you a few days ago?” Steve added. 

“No, it’s not. But if she’s going to be working for S.H.I.E.L.D., we need to test her capabilities. Her lack of knowledge in foreign languages shows that there are limitations to what she can do. I wanted to see if she’s able to discern individual thoughts.”

**Looks like I got lost. _Again_. Stupid Google Maps.**

**…haven’t checked Facebook in a while. All right, I’m taking a study break.**

You supposed that he had a point, but did he have to talk about you as if you weren’t there?

“Inside,” Bucky said tightly. “We’ll talk about this inside.”

**Feels like I’ve got a target on my back.**

**…shouldn’t have done that.**

That string of Russian again.

If he was bothered by the way Bucky spoke to him, it never showed on his face; he stepped aside to let the four of you in. 

“Director Fury?” a voice called from the living room. “Is that them? Have they arrived?”

**Wait…**

**Couldn’t be—**

“Yes, they have,” Fury answered. 

The sound of soft footsteps, a sudden, eerie quiet in your head and a redheaded woman appeared in the doorway to the living room. 

She was tall, beautiful in a way that made you want to curl up and hide: high cheekbones, smooth skin, a mouth that curled up at the edges as if she was always on the verge of smiling or laughing.

The newcomer would have looked like a princess, if not for the leather jacket, the black lipstick, and heavy eyeliner. Instead, she made you think of a Valkyrie if Valkyries played death metal as they carried the souls of warriors to Valhalla. 

Sam and Steve obviously knew her, because the two of them rushed past you to greet her.

**…didn’t tell us that Wanda was coming!**

**She looks great. Looks like she got a haircut…**

Nick Fury waited politely as the three of them exchanged greetings; they were obviously very close, the two men hugging Wanda as if they didn’t want to let her go.

You felt a sudden stab of jealousy, one that you squashed ruthlessly. 

Looking at Wanda and Sam and Steve, the obvious friendship between them, you can’t remember someone ever being that happy to greet you. Not even your father. After your stay in the asylum, he had always greeted you with big, fake smiles, ones that trembled at the edges of his mouth, as if the act itself physically hurt him. 

Then you remembered the way Bucky had hugged you to him after he had seen you at the HYDRA base. It made you feel better, knowing that at least one person was happy to be around you.

You turned to Bucky, wanting to talk to him about his impressions on the newcomer. You stopped, however, when you realized how tense he was: his jaw was clenched so tightly that little white lines appeared on his cheeks and you could hear the faint noise of his metal arm whirring.

Puzzled, you tilted your head and sort of…reached.

**Shouldn’t be here—**

**\--endangering them**

**They’re so happy…**

**\--don’t deserve—**

“Bucky.” 

The voices stopped. Bright blue eyes looked down at you.

“Somethin’ the matter, sweetheart?”

You wanted to tell him that he had every right to be here, that he deserved to be here, that you wanted him here, beside you.

But instead, you simply said, “You okay?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. 

“M’fine. Don’t worry about me,” he said. A lie and the two of you knew it. But he looked more relaxed now and you silently congratulated yourself for that. 

When Steve and Sam broke away from the woman, Fury turned to the two of you to make introductions.

“This is Wanda Maximoff. She’s a member of the Avengers.” 

Wanda smiled, almost shyly at the two of you, extending a friendly hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” you echoed. Well, it was nice to meet her. You just couldn’t help but wonder if this was another one of Nick Fury’s tests.

Bucky shook her hand briefly, his expression guarded. When you did the same it suddenly dawned on you…

“Hey, I can’t read your mind!” 

There was a _gap_ in the voices, like a river current parting around a stone, a blessed silence where her voice should’ve been.

“And I can’t feel yours.” Her smile grew wider, more genuine this time.

“Ms. Maximoff has displayed some telepathic abilities in the past,” Fury explained. “I was wondering how your powers would work against one another’s.” 

“Cool!” The idea of being around someone who was at least a little like you was…well, it made you feel a little less lonely.

“So you can read other people’s minds, too?” you asked.

“Sometimes. Mostly the ones that are fueled by emotion.” Wanda looked uncomfortable at this and let go of your hand. “That isn’t my specialty, though.”

“What is your specialty, then?”

**This should be good…**

Wanda raised her hand and even in the bright light, you could see a stream of red...something sparking off her fingertips.

Sure, you’d been around Sam who could fly or Bucky who could deflect bullets with his metal arm, but this was the first time you’ve seen something that looked like actual magic. 

“Cool!” you said again. God, you wished you stopped sounding like your brain had stopped.

Wanda didn’t seem to mind, however, flicking her fingers to make her power dissipate. 

“I can show you more, later,” she offered. 

Oh _hell_ yes. You nodded quickly.

“Wanda can help us test some of your abilities,” Fury explained. “Maybe she can even teach you a few things.” 

“So I have a teacher, now? _Cool_ ,” you grinned. 

“Something like that. Wanda’s powers are a bit different from yours, but it’s the closest thing we have right now. There’s another telepath in Britain. He has more experience but…” Fury shrugged. “We have different methods.”

You continued smiling, feeling your cheeks begin to ache, still unable to stop. You couldn’t believe this—it was actually happening! This was turning out even better than James Bonds’ gadgets.

“Okay. Okay. Cool.” 

**Like a kid in a candy store.**

“I heard that, Sam.” 

A part of you cringed at the casual way you referenced your power, thought that maybe Sam would find it weird that you could hear thoughts like. But a bigger part of you, the one that remembered all the times the man teased you, wasn’t surprised when Sam threw back his head and laughed. 

The knot in your stomach eased at this, looking around at them all, noting the faint smile on Steve’s face as he chided Sam for teasing you so much, the way Wanda was mouthing at you, “He does that all the time.”

The realization that these people were not only used to, but _accepted_ , people like you made you feel…strange. 

Your job at the coffee shop, the endless pills, even the asylum seemed to be fading away in your head. They were still there, of course, but it was becoming hard to think of them, at this time, with these people.

It was with a jolt that you realized that you were changing, your life was changing.

And you…you were fine with that.

Better than fine, you think to yourself, as Bucky joined in on Steve and Sam’s conversation, the two friends ganging up on Sam, who was now arguing the pros and cons of thinking dirty thoughts while a mind-reader was in the room.

You were better than fine. You were _happy._. 

****

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a cheerful chapter to start the New Year! Happy New Year to you wonderful, brilliant, absolutely inspiring people. I hope your 2017 is filled with love, happiness and laughter. 
> 
> I just want to say how freaking excited I am for the next two arcs. And just how absolutely boggled I am at the amount of support I’m receiving. You guys don’t know how thankful I am to have such great readers. Thank you so, so much for sticking with me!


	19. Pyrrhic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I’m sorry it took so long to update, these last two months have been as stressful as hell. Lookie, I got my first panic attack. And started shedding hair. Ain’t that a doozy. I generally love what I’m doing in medicine school, but I’m not going to deny that it’s stressful. Add to the fact that I’m an anxious little shit and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. Anyway, hair’s growing back, laid off the caffeine (lol who am I kidding) and I’m ready to take on the world again. 
> 
> Which means returning to writing.
> 
> Just thank you so, so much to the people who responded to my question. I’ll be answering individually on whether or not they can be included in the story. I’ll certainly try to add as many as possible, within the rules of the story. I do have to say that telekinetic powers (moving objects with one’s mind) cannot be added, as having telekinetic powers and telepathy only runs within the Grey line (yes, Jean Grey). So, in the Marvel universe, telepathy and telekinesis rarely exist within one person. But otherwise, I’ll find some way to use your ideas, you all have such awesome ones! More than a few did a little research themselves for their ideas, and I’m extremely grateful for that. You’re all such wonderful readers! 
> 
> I read your comments, especially the ones asking after me after such a long break, and I’m really grateful that so many wonderful people are reading my story, thank you all so much! 
> 
> TL;DR: the author had some shit to figure out, missed you guys very much, think you’re all pretty awesome.

You shifted uneasily, fingers twisting in the fabric of your shirt. 

When you had been on the run, Bucky had chastised you for nervous habits like that, had said that it made you easy to find. 

He didn’t seem to mind now, however. On the contrary, Bucky looked as nervous as you felt, his back ramrod-straight. A pulse was jumping in his neck. He looked, for all the world, like a student who’s been called at the principal’s office.

The thought made your lips twitch a little, easing some of your own nervousness away.

**…should run…**

**He’s going to have you arrested.**

**_I’m not going back._ **

**…going to make me kill again.**

**\--all you’re good for—**

You looked up, startled. 

That had been Bucky’s voice. Those were his _thoughts._

Shame colored your face at the thought that you had thought of laughing at him only a few minutes ago. Of _course_ , he was thinking of his time in HYDRA.

Your fingers eased their grip on your skirt and slid down until they touched the cold metal of Bucky’s hands. You hated yourself for the small twist in your stomach at the sensation, the sudden pulsing in your neck as if his hands were wrapped around it still.

If Bucky had wanted to kill you, he would have already done so.

He nearly jumped out of his seat when you gave his hand a brief squeeze. He looked at you, eyes wide with surprise.

You dropped his hand as the metal burned you, feeling your cheeks flush.

You should’ve asked before you did that. 

Great. He probably thought that you were some sort of creep now.

But then he relaxed, the muscles in his shoulders losing their previous tightness. 

“Sorry about that, ‘m just surprised, that’s all,” he said.

“It’s okay. I just…you looked tense…” you explained, lamely. 

His smile made you feel warm, like a mug of tea on a snowy day and you found yourself thinking that Bucky Barnes should smile more often.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. 

“No problem.” 

The sound of footsteps echoed across the house and Nick Fury strode into view. That was the correct word for it: strode. He was a man who seemed like he always had a purpose, even in something as simple as walking.

He eyed the two of you for a moment, and not for the first time, you felt the strangest sensation of being x-rayed. It made you uncomfortable, thinking that this man was silently evaluating you, sure that he found you lacking in some way.

“Sam, Steve, and Wanda agreed to give us some privacy for this interview. Would you prefer to do this separately or would you rather I talk to the two of you?” he asked.

You tensed, your stomach knotting itself at the thought of being alone with Nick Fury. The decision was on your lips before you even thought about it, your mouth actually opening to answer.

Then you stopped. Eyed Bucky out of the corner of your eye.

He had not moved from his spot; hell, it looked like he hadn’t even moved a muscle. Instead, he was staring at Nick Fury, a strange look in his eyes.

_Fear_ , you realized. He was afraid of Nick Fury.

You remembered the night (or was it early morning?) when Bucky had told you about who he was, about HYDRA and the Winter Soldier. 

He wore the same haunted look he did then, like an animal that knew it was trapped but still feared the fight that would follow. 

**She’ll know..**

**\--already told her--**

**Nick Fury knows what you did.**

**Criminal. Assassin. Spy. Murderer.**

**Murderer.**

**Murderer.**

**_Murderer_. **

You couldn’t help but cringe at the hate in those words. 

And then it was gone. The fear and the hate and restrained panic gone, his face now free of expression, like a slate that had been wiped clean. 

Bucky, you thought idly, would be great at poker.

He turned toward you, the corner of his mouth quirking upward as if to ask you a question: _What do you want?_

You felt your throat close. 

You couldn’t do this to him. You couldn’t force him to sit there and listen in on his secrets, on the things that Nick Fury knew, on the things Bucky _feared_ he knew.

You couldn’t do that. Not if you could help it. Not because you were simply afraid.

“I...it’ll be better if you talk to us alone,” you stammered.

You could feel Bucky’s gaze burn into the back of your neck. 

“I can wait outside,” you offered. “You can just call me when you’re done.”

Bucky shifted uneasily beside you. “Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes searching your face for any sign of discomfort. 

“I’ll be fine,” you said, giving him a smile, one that wavered at the edges. 

Before he could protest, you stood up and, with a vague little wave, walked out of the room.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Nick Fury lean forward in his seat. 

“Mr. Barnes, maybe we should start with your connections to HYDRA...”

You shut the door.

Curiosity burned inside you. 

Though he had told you that HYDRA had forced him to do terrible things. Some nights, you could’ve sworn that you still hear the dates he recited in his head. 

**He doesn’t know about Howard.**

**Or the others.**

**Bastard almost killed me, once.**

**Shot me in Steve’s apartment, too.**

**Shit.**

You took a deep breath, tried to force your attention away from Bucky’s thoughts, from Fury’s. The knowledge that what you were hearing was a gross invasion of their privacy, of _Bucky’s_ privacy made it feel a thousand times worse.

Then you heard it, just the faintest noise from the outside, the equivalent of someone whispering in an empty room.

**I wonder if he’ll call me back...**

You seized upon this lone thought, followed it back to the source and...and...

And you were drowning.

You were standing just outside of Nick Fury’s living room, but you were also looking out of someone’s eyes. Staring down at a phone with a man’s picture on it, one thumb, painted with black nail polish, hovering over the call button.

**What a hottie, but he’s such a tease...**

The stranger who was not you lifted her eyes and just for the briefest moment, made eye contact with a man in a suit.

And--

A goth girl was looking at you with a slack-jawed impression-- **God, the kids these days have no respect** \--you snort and gingerly pat the wallet you had tucked into your back pocket.

A blonde with great breasts catches your eye. You smile at her and--

That creep in the suit just winked at you. You rolled your eyes at him, give a practiced smile.

**\--will sleep with anything with a pulse.**

**Never gonna get anywhere at this rate.**

**People shouldn’t be made to be up this early in the morning--**

**The new issue just came out, I can’t wait to read it!**

**I hope they’re doing well, especially her. Team’s been too filled with testosterone lately--**

**Is it normal to take this long for...?**

**Shouldn’t we be accompanying them to--**

**Too much, too much.**

It was impossible to listen to all these voices without drowning. You could feel your own consciousness fraying at the edges. 

You needed to come back to your body, your own mind. Or...or...

**That book’s twist was phenomenal!**

**Shouldn’t be so into horror. It’s not normal.**

**God, does she ever stop talking about that stupid book!**

**No, no.**

Think of your own body. Your fingers clutching your shirt vice-tight. Your back pressed against the wooden wall. The too-tight bra that cut into your chest. The loose pants held up by a frayed belt.

Your body. _Yours_. Your mind. _Your_ thoughts.

“ _Hey_!”

Hard fingers biting into the skin of your shoulders. Someone shaking you.

Your head banged against the wall because of the motion.

And you resurface, gasping for air, like you had been seconds from drowning.

In a way, you were.

Blue filled your vision and for a single second, you were reminded of the lake that your father had spent so many weekends fishing in. How it never came up higher than your shoulders. Your father’s smile when you showed him a trout that you had caught.

You could breathe. Letting air escape through your teeth in a hiss. Cold sweat dotted your face.

“What the hell happened?” Bucky demanded. 

“I--I--” you stumbled, your tongue refusing to form the words.

What _had_ happened?

You were reminded of the little scramblers that HYDRA soldiers had, the ones that bombarded you with thoughts. But what you heard a few moments ago were actual people, actual thoughts. 

You had seen through their eyes. 

Hadn’t that happened before? Just before you had warned Bucky about the soldiers that were trying to capture him, hadn’t you seen briefly through the eyes of one those soldiers?

“You’re bleeding.” Bucky’s voice broke through your thoughts and you felt the warm trickle of blood on your lip.

“Crap,” you mumbled, absently swiping at it. 

“Sweetheart, stop. Here.” He handed you a handkerchief, but instead of taking it, you grimaced.

“I’m just gonna get it all bloody.” 

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “That’s kind of the idea. I don’t mind, honest. Just...you worried me for a bit there.”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically. “Just stressed, you know? How’d the interview go?”

Something dark crossed across Bucky’s face. The hand that remained on your shoulder let go as if burned.

“Fine,” he said in a tone that was anything but. 

You decided not to push it. 

“Okay. Guess it’s my turn then.” God, you hoped that Nick Fury had a box of tissues on hand.

“Wait.” 

You waited.

“If...you need someone in there with you.” The words looked painful for Bucky to say as if being in the same room with Nick Fury left a bad taste in his mouth.

Without meaning to, you mentally _reached_ for him, his words, wondering if you should take him up on his offer.

But instead, you came at a blank wall.

Nothing. No voice or thought came to you. Silence. 

The voices had stopped several times before but it was only at that moment you realized how often you relied on them to be able to read people.

Just a few months ago, you would have done anything to stop the flow of voices in your head. 

Now, you actively _relied_ on them to be able to know what people wanted, what they thought. 

The knowledge made your cheeks heat up. It all sounded so messed up.

And just like that, Bucky’s hands were off of you, his eyes, the one that reminded you of a clear lake on a summer day, looking at everywhere else except you. 

His lips barely moved as he asked you, “You sure you gonna be okay?”

You nearly smile. 

_Were you sure?_

You were dressed in an unpressed shirt that smelled of mothballs, holding a handkerchief to your bleeding nose because you overused your powers, about to have a job interview with a spymaster.

The situation felt so ridiculous that you’d be more worried if you were sure. 

“No,” you said, feeling slightly more cheerful. “But I think I can handle it alone.” 

Bucky opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again without a sound.

A long moment passed between the two of you before he smiled back and said, “All right, I’ll be waiting for you here.” 

You nodded at him, felt a sudden surge of affection for the man who was willing to walk back into an interview with Nick Fury for you and yet trusted you enough to let talk with the spymaster alone because you wanted to. 

The knowledge felt like a talisman in your chest, somehow making the idea of talking with Nick Fury a lot less intimidating.

You decided to go to him before you lost your nerve. 

****

*****

Nick Fury was the type of man whose mere appearance commanded respect.

Even when he was sitting down on what looked to be the world’s softest, pinkest armchair.

“Sit down,” he commanded. 

_That was the right term for it_ , you thought. 

_Commanded_. He didn’t look like the type of man who ever requested anything. All he did was snap his fingers and people would jump to obey.

It struck you then, that this was exactly what _you_ could do.

The thought did not make you feel better. 

Somehow, you found it hard to meet his eyes as you settled yourself in front of him.

A steaming cup of coffee was in front of him. Small tendrils of smoke rising from the surface.

He didn’t offer you any. 

The silence stretched on for longer than you were comfortable with. 

You snuck a peek at him. 

He was staring at you, appraisingly, like you were a rough-cut gem he was unsure whether he should keep or throw away.

You stayed silent.

Several minutes passed, with Nick Fury staring at you and you avoiding his eyes.

The silence was becoming painful.

It struck you then that if your powers hadn’t short-circuited, you would know what he was thinking right now. 

Or maybe not, considering that he always shielded his thoughts from you.

You shifted uncomfortably in your chair. 

What was he doing?

Was he waiting for you to make the first move? Was he expecting some sort of display of power? Was that how Wanda had gotten the job? Just waved her fingers, lifted a truck above her head and that was it?

Where were your powers when they needed them?

You could feel cold sweat forming on the back of your neck, the palm of your hands.

God, you wished that he’d just say something.

Finally, the silence was enough for you and trying to push away the black emptiness in your head where the voices used to be, you spoke.

“What the _hell_ do you want from me, Nick Fury?”

The man blinked, the only clue that you got on what he was feeling. 

“You’re used to someone taking the lead, aren’t you?”

“What?” you snapped. You struggled to hold on to your anger at being manipulated _again_ , even as a part of you cringed away, begged-whined-pleaded to stop your _aggressive behavior_. Judgment from other people came quickly when you were a diagnosed schizophrenic. 

“It took you ten minutes to ask me what I wanted. Most people would have asked the moment they sat down. I suppose that came from...” He shifted, looking uncomfortable for the first time since you met him.

“Say it,” you said. “From being locked in an insane asylum for two years.”

And then, something occurred to you. Like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, and it was the easiest thing in the world to put it back together. Except the picture it was showing you was less than pleasant.

“Did S.H.I.E.L.D. have anything to do with me being locked up in that place?” you asked and you knew, you just knew, that if Nick Fury said yes, you would kill him.

And the knowledge that you would even contemplate killing someone sent a chill through you.

But the decision stayed.

Oh, it stayed.

If Nick Fury said yes, you would kill him for ruining your life. When they had first thrown you into that place, it had felt a bit like dying.

And every day you woke, you died a bit more.

His eyes met yours, unwavering, unflinching.

You could have sworn that time slowed down as he opened his mouth to answer you.

“No.”

You closed your eyes, wished fiercely that you could hear the voices again so you could tell if he was lying.

And just like that, you heard a snatch of Nick Fury’s voice inside your head.

HYDRA--

The rest was cut off again. You felt a sudden sharp pain across your left temple.

“What did HYDRA have to do with that?” you demanded.

This time, Nick Fury did look surprised, then his expression smoothed over and you knew that he just switched his thinking into Filipino or some other language you had no understanding off.

“Do you know why S.H.I.E.L.D. was disbanded?” he asked suddenly.

You shook your head, still holding on to your anger at being manipulated by this man. Because if you didn’t you had the feeling that you were going to break down and start apologizing. 

The thought of apologizing to him made you feel ill.

“It was infiltrated by HYDRA, an organization dedicated to dominating the world to make their own version of world peace.”

Under any other circumstance, the phrase “dominate the world” would have been laughable, but instead, you thought of Bucky and his metal arm and nodded. 

“They’ve been manipulating us for years, sending some of our best agents to their deaths or authorizing missions that served their purposes.” Here, Nick Fury’s voice grew rough, and you realized that this was painful for him to talk about.

“HYDRA must have found your file, decided that putting you in an asylum was the best way to destabilize you.” he said. 

You wrinkled your nose at the word _destabilize_ , thinking how the voices got so much worse in the asylum. 

“If we had known,” Nick Fury said quietly. “We never would have let it happen. That’s not what S.H.I.E.L.D. is about.”

For the first time, you think, he’s being utterly sincere. You decided to believe him.

There was another question you wanted an answer to, however.

“Was my mother...did she have the same powers I did?”

You thought of her, screaming and raving about the voices in her head while you cowered in the corner, fully aware of how the whispers in your own head were getting louder each day.

Nick Fury’s face was a blank mask. “We don’t know. But I’ll look into it for you.” 

You relaxed into your seat, feeling the anger leak out of you. 

“Is that all of your questions?” he asked. You had the feeling that he was struggling not to rush you.

“For now, anyway,” you muttered.

“Fair enough. I’ve already told you that S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to recruit you.”

“Why? I’m a schizophrenic on the run,” you said wearily. Still, something in your chest glowed at the idea of something choosing _you_.

“You’re a powerful telepath,” Nick Fury corrected. “I’ve only ever seen two other telepaths with that kind of power, and they’re both in Britain under another organization.

You blinked. _Telepath_? Was that what you were called? It sounded a lot better than schizophrenic.

“You could become a valuable asset to S.H.I.E.L.D. if you wanted to. We could train you.”

“And what would training me mean?” you asked, thinking of Rocky and Anakin Skywalker’s training.

“We’d train you in some basic combat skills,” he began. “Just enough to defend yourself on the battlefield. You’ll learn how to fight, take down multiple opponents, how to shoot a gun. But I expect that when you gain full control of your powers, you won’t need that training much. It’s just a precaution.” 

He looked at you sideways and for the first time, you realized that Nick Fury was...cautious around you.

“You can control people, can’t you? Sam Wilson reported something to that effect.”

You swallowed, feeling the moisture on your lips evaporating, the image of the prisoner burning brightly in your mind. “Yes.”

“You wouldn’t need a gun when you can just tell someone to shoot themselves.”

“I’m not going to kill anyone,” you whispered quietly.

“I’m not asking you to,” Nick Fury continued briskly. “Ask him to shoot himself in the leg, knock himself out with the butt of his pistol. We’re not going to force you to kill. That isn’t what S.H.I.E.L.D. is about.”

You blinked, felt something shift inside you and you thought to yourself then that maybe, just maybe, working for S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t be so bad.

It certainly sounded like it would beat working at a coffee shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a bit of an announcement, this chapter is the next to last for this arc. After that, I’ll be introducing more characters from the Marvel franchise. I’m very much excited about two arcs I have planned out, one involving a certain doctor and another involving a certain angry green guy. I’ll be asking you readers about inputs in the story, I’d love to hear your voices.


	20. Incipient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who got inspired after an evening walk through the city because she couldn’t pay for dinner, her meds, and a ride home at the same time? That’s right, my broke ass. 
> 
> I apologize for the lack of action in this one, I bet you’re tired of all the domesticity. But don’t worry, I’ll be introducing new characters and more fight scenes in the next arc!
> 
> Also, reader’s apartment. Have you seen the one Steve has in The Winter Soldier? That place was hugeeeeee. 
> 
> Finally, guess who got food poisoning and had to spend three days vomiting up every meal she’s ever had in the past three years? 
> 
> You guessed it, me! I’m pretty sure I vomited my soul up in the process too. Small, nasty little thing it was, probably floating in the sewers now. Would you believe that in the course of three days, my uniform went from tight to fitting just right to positively hanging off me by day three? I should market food poisoning as a diet strategy and make millions.

****

*****

The apartment was tiny, smaller even than the apartment you used to have.

All it had was one room and one tiny bathroom, just out of sight. The bed was pushed up against the wall as if it wanted to take as little space as possible. Even so, it took up nearly half the floor. A dark wood cabinet took up the other half.

Despite the size of the apartment, someone had obviously taken the time to clean it up; the floors were newly swept and there were fresh sheets on the bed. Bright yellow curtains fluttered idly in the breeze. For some reason, that small detail made you feel oddly welcome.

Steve followed behind you, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, it was the only thing we could get on such short notice.” 

Considering that “short notice” happened to be “on the same day you accepted Nick Fury’s job offer”, you figured that it was nothing less than impressive that they were able to find an available apartment so quick. 

Wanda followed behind him, barely fitting in the doorway, her lips pursed as she surveyed the tiny space.

You carefully placed the stack of books on the bed, wondering if you should buy a hanging shelf for them. 

The books have been given to you by Fury, instructional manuals on how to learn Chinese. Being one of the most spoken languages in the world, he explained that learning how to speak it should be one of your first priorities. 

Body language, too. At least one of the books had been about learning how to read it.

“You’re relying too much on your powers to tell you what people think,” the director had said. “People’s bodies will tell you a lot more if you learn how to observe them.”

He had mentioned getting you a tutor, though Nick had insisted you read the books first.

As a child, you’d always wanted to learn another language, courtesy of all the anime you watched. You’d always entertained the idea of your father and you, going to different lands and speaking with the people there.

But then your mother had started speaking to _people who weren’t there_ , and the fantasy pretty much soured after that. 

“She looks like she’ll barely fit,” Wanda’s voice broke you from your thoughts. “Can’t we find something better, Steve?” 

Sam was next, surveying the room with a critical eye. 

It looked like all four of them were refraining from stepping inside the small space, afraid of not being able to fit. 

When you had started renting your first apartment, you had rented it because it was near your therapist’s house. 

And because it was near The Sweet Tooth. 

You had been forced to overlook the leaking ceiling, the mildew growing on the walls and the overall depressing atmosphere of the place. 

When you started renting your first apartment, you had done it alone. 

Now you had four people with you, two of which you were sure were your friends, critically assessing whether or not your new place was worthy of you.

“It’s the only available place near one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s main headquarters,” Sam said slowly. “So we’ll know that she won’t be attacked by HYDRA, at least. That’s about the best we can do for now.” 

He shot you an apologetic look. “We could get you a smaller cabinet, you know. So you’ll have room for other things. I could make you a desk.”

You had a sudden, vivid image of Sam Wilson, Avenger extraordinaire, bent over a piece of wood, hammer in hand and sweat glistening on his forehead. 

“Make me a desk, Sam?” you giggled. “I didn’t realize you made furniture.”

Sam smirked. “Considering how expensive the whole superhero thing is.” Here, he nudged Bucky, who raised an eyebrow. “I figured I should have some sort of fallback.”

“Should I start learning how to make bars of soap now?” you asked. 

“You’re a superspy,” Sam corrected. “Different salaries. You lucky bastards will be drinking fine wine in limousines by the time your third paycheck rolls in.”

“If we survive the mission,” Bucky said darkly.

“Oh, listen to Mr. Sunshine over here.” 

Bucky ignored the jokester and focused on you. “Are you sure you’ll be fine here? We’ll find you something else, just say the word.”

You thought about it. The apartment was small, sure. But you didn’t want to make any more trouble for Nick Fury or any of the others. What if they thought that you were acting spoiled and stuck-up?

Working for S.H.I.E.L.D., surely you’ll find yourself in less accommodating situations than a small apartment. What if Nick Fury fired you for acting like a spoiled brat?

You could live in this small apartment. You decided.

It wasn’t so bad, really. At least it didn’t have mildew.

“I’ll be okay here,” you said, smiling, hoping that it didn’t look too strained on your lips. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” Bucky asked.

Your stomach gave an unpleasant little twist at that; you were starting to hate yourself for those random little moments where it felt as if your organs would forget how to be organs around him. 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” 

After a moment’s thought, you decided to ask. “Bucky, where would you be living?”

You felt a sudden shot of anxiety; you’d been so focused on your apartment, you never thought to think about how Bucky would be adjusting to the new situation. 

“In a cardboard box just west of Main Street--”

“Shut up, Wilson. I’ll be living with Steve, sweetheart. He’ll...” Bucky paused then, as if unsure how to finish. 

The sentence hung in the air like a scent and it was as if everybody in the room took notice.

Wanda even inclined her head a little in Bucky’s direction, as if it would let her catch the man’s stray thoughts.

You desperately wish you had your powers back because you knew, based on how he spoke, that Bucky wasn’t staying with Steve simply because they were best friends. 

Sam, who knew when to change the flow of a conversation,picked up the thread with little effort and redirected it to what appeared to be his favorite topic: teasing you. 

“Of course, if you wanted Barnes to live with you instead, that can be arranged. You’ll be a bit cramped for space...might have to sleep on top of one another...” 

“Sam...” you moaned, unsure if Sam would take offense at you hitting him, wanting to do so all the same.

You were relieved that Bucky would be someone he can trust, of course. And yet, and yet. 

Your fingers itched to grasp at his shirt again, his sleeve, to somehow bring him closer to you. 

Ridiculous, you knew. 

But a small part of you was afraid that now Steve was here, Bucky’s best friend. Maybe, maybe Bucky wouldn’t want to be near you all the time. 

Maybe he’ll realize that he doesn’t need someone so emotionally unstable, so whiny, so clingy. 

A small part of you was already marking out the days on the calendar, where you’ll start seeing less and less of him, when he slowly realizes that Steve was way more fun to be around. 

You’re being irrational, you told yourself. Not to mention ungrateful. You were just given a job. A chance to make new friends. And your worrying is ruining it. 

But still, that small part of you remained. And it gnawed. 

When your three visitors have left, you slowly unpacked the backpack you had brought with you, the night after you first talked with Sam. 

You had only brought a couple of clothes; it took up all of one shelf in your cabinet. Fury had said that your old clothes would be too familiar to agents of HYDRA--no doubt they had searched your apartment by now. But you had given him a list of items to retrieve in your apartment, and he had promised that he’ll have them delivered to you by next week at least.

You’ll be okay, you thought to yourself, though your heart was hammering at the idea of a new job, a new apartment and strange new people (oh God, what if they didn’t like you?).

You’re going to be okay. 

One of the books that Fury had lent to you was titled _Fundamentals of Chinese Characters_. You opened it and began to read.

Everything was going to be all right.

You hoped.

****

*****

The sky outside had long turned dark when you finally decided to look up from your book. You had read through several chapters of _Fundamentals of Chinese Characters_ and had flipped through several of the other books.

By this time, you were convinced that anyone who worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. had to be an Einstein-level genius because you couldn’t understand half of what you’d read. 

A knock on the door startled you out of your thoughts and for a moment, you stared at it, thinking that it was one of Nick Fury’s tests again. 

Was there some sort of spy protocol on answering the door? Some sort of pattern that would identify a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent? 

Whoever was at the door knocked again.

Hoping that it was just a regular person who thought the old tenants still lived here, you called through the door, “Hello? I’m the new tenant.” 

There was a muffled laugh, and you heard Bucky say, “I know.” 

You felt a wide grin split your face and you all but tripped over your own feet in your rush to get to the door. 

True enough, Bucky was standing outside of your apartment. He looked good, you realized with a flush of heat. 

It was amazing what a fresh change of clothes could do for someone; he was wearing a dark blue sweater, one that failed to hide the bulk of muscle underneath. 

Instead, it accentuated the broad lines of his shoulders, the curve of his biceps and...your face flushed with heat and you looked away, feeling like a pervert. 

You were suddenly, painfully aware of the fact that you hadn’t brushed your hair or looked at yourself in the mirror for the last couple of hours.

“W-what’re you doing here?” you stammered, trying and probably failing to look casual as you combed your hair with your fingers.

“Just wanted to check up on you,” he said and his eyes followed the pile of books on the bed. “S’probably a good thing, too. You been readin’ all day?”

“Uh.” 

“You do realize it’s nearly eight in the evening, right?”

_Don’t say uh_ , you chided yourself. 

“Uh--yeah?” you said, trying to sound like it was no big deal. Unfortunately, your stomach decided to betray you by letting out a rather intimidating growl. 

Bucky’s smile widened. “Want to get something to eat?” 

You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until the thought of food made saliva flood your mouth. 

“Sure, I-uh...let me just change...” you muttered, all too aware of the fact that you still hadn’t unpacked your clothes and that they were all probably wrinkled by now. 

When you had gone to meet Sam, you had chosen clothes meant for being in hiding and sneaking around. 

Dark t-shirts and running shoes were great for when you’re running from an enemy soldier in the dark, but they hardly qualified as “attractive”.

Promising yourself that you’ll find some decent clothes once you got your first paycheck, you slipped into an old hoodie you had, mostly to cover up the wrinkles in your shirt and declared yourself done.

When you exited the bathroom, you found Bucky studying the books you had left on the bed.

“Chinese, huh?” he asked. 

“Most spoken language in the world, at least according to Fury,” you said. “Honestly, I can’t make heads or tales of it.” 

Bucky didn’t respond and instead, pored over the page you left open. 

“Do you...can you read it?” you asked, gesturing to a passage in the book.

He shrugged, though there was a tightness in his voice when he spoke, “Just some practice sentences. A few numbers.”

“But you can read it?” you asked eagerly. “You never even told me you knew Chinese!”

There was an uncomfortable silence as Bucky thumbed a page of the book, his eyes focused on the paper. You get the feeling that he wasn’t reading anymore.

“I don’t. I don’t remember learning it, anyway.” The hand he was using to flip the pages, you just noticed, was covered by a glove.

You shut your mouth.

Most of the time, Bucky acted so normal, so...in control that it became hard to remember that he had spent most of his life as a brainwashed assassin. 

And then, there were times like this, when you realized that most of his skills hadn’t been acquired by choice. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “I shouldn’t have asked.” 

But Bucky was already shaking his head. “You couldn’t have known. Now, how about that dinner?” 

His smile looked a lot more bitter than it did a few minutes ago and he barely inclined his head towards you as he swept out of the apartment. You followed him out, cursing yourself for ruining the night before it even started.

****

*****

**Stupid, stupid, stupid.**

**We used to come here, just the two of us...I remember the first time when...**

**Is that a puddle of vomit?**

You winced and put a hand to your head, hoping to massage the headache away. Though from experience, that maneuver had never been successful.

The action wasn’t lost on Bucky, who tightened his arm around you.

“You doin’ all right there?” he muttered under his breath. 

Though he didn’t look too well himself; he seemed restless, his eyes roaming through the crowd of people, tilting his head as if to catch the thread of a conversation. 

And every now and then, you’d hear it: the whir of the metal plates in his arm.

For once, you were glad that arm he had placed around you was his real one.

“You’re not looking too hot yourself,” you shot back.

Bucky frowned. “Just...adjustin’. That’s all. ‘M more worried about you. Thought you don’t do too well in crowds?”

You bumped into a teenager who was texting on his phone. “Sorry,” you said automatically. 

He didn’t even bother looking up, instead choosing to sidestep you and continuing as if nothing happened. But not before you heard a brief snatch of his thoughts, **Stupid bitch acting like she owns the road...**

You cringed and resisted the urge to step closer to Bucky. He was already studying you, as if expecting you to start crying or something.

Your father’s words coming back to you, _Please not here, sweetheart. Don’t make a scene here._

“I’m fine,” you said, perhaps with a more force than usual. “I just...didn’t expect my powers to come back now.”

“They disappeared?” Bucky asked sharply. “When did this happen?”

**Didn’t tell me--I should have asked.**

**If Fury had something to do with this--**

“It’s fine,” you said soothingly. “Just had a bit of a...circuit overload in the apartment. Too many people outside, I guess.” 

No way you were going to tell him about your freaky mind-hopping thing. Not until you understood what was going on.

“But you’re fine now?” he insisted. 

“I’m fine now,” you reassured. “I’m just sorry Steve couldn’t come.”

Bucky’s mouth lifted slightly in a half-smile. “Got himself busy stopping earthquakes in the Bronx.”

“Earthquakes? I didn’t realize Captain America could stop earthquakes, too,” you said.

“He can’t, at least last I checked,” Bucky said. 

“So, how--?”

**So the first order neurons are free nerve endings, going to the dorsal root...**

**I swear to God, it’s like he thinks I’m required to like him back.**

You cut yourself off, wincing, that last one had been particularly loud. Whoever thought it must be having a really bad day. 

Thankfully, Bucky didn’t notice he was too busy looking around at the city, you saw the way his eyes roamed across the billboards that dotted the sky, the knot of people around you, going about their own businesses. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurted before you could stop yourself, causing Bucky to focus on you.

“Sorry about what?” he asked.

“All this...” You waved an all-encompassing hand to gesture to the city. “Must look strange to you.”

Bucky leaned a little towards you, as if your words had a physical weight to them. “A bit, yeah. First time I really got a good look at the city since...”

His face darkened and he cut himself, obviously unwilling to talk about more. 

“What was it like, back then?” you asked softly. 

“Less crowded, for one thing,” Bucky said with a laugh. “Definitely don’t remember seein’ this many people back then.”

You snorted. “I asked you what it’s like and your first thought was overpopulation? Okay.”

“Well, what do you want to hear, sweetheart?” Bucky teased. “That we didn’t have cell phones back then? D’you wanna make me feel like an old man?”

“Well, what do you miss most about it?” you asked. 

Bucky was silent for a long time before he answered, “The people. Miss my ma, my sister. Hell, I even miss my guys at the Howlies.” 

**Used to have drinking contests back at the barracks...**

**She used to make us pancakes on our birthdays.**

**My da used to teach me how to...  
**   
You touched your head briefly, ignoring the shooting pain that was traveling across your forehead. 

“I’m sorry,” you said. “Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

“They weren’t all bad. There’s a lot of good ones, too.” He looked away. “I just wish I could remember them all.”

**Sometimes feel like I spent my whole damn life in that cage, that cell.**

Your heart stuttered a bit at that last one and the image of Bucky came unbidden to your mind. Bucky, strapped to a chair, tied down like an animal. His body jerking with every pulse of electricity they shot through him...

“I’m sorry.”

“Gotta stop sayin’ that, sweetheart,” Bucky chided gently. “S’not your fault my brain’s got more holes than Swiss cheese.” 

“Isn’t there something we can do?” you asked softly. You didn’t want him walking around forever, haunted by half-remembered memories.

“Fury said I should see a therapist,” Bucky said quietly.

You swallowed, feeling a burning sensation at the back of your head, the taste of something bitter on your tongue.

“What did you say?” you asked.

“I said yes,” Bucky said, his voice growing steadily quiet. “I’m no good as an agent if I...”

He paused, swallowed. Didn’t complete the sentence. He didn’t need to. 

You found yourself leaning against him, suddenly feeling cold.

**...I could kill people...**

**Hurt Steve--**

“I think that’s a great idea,” you said quietly. “Going to a therapist.”

Bucky glanced at you out of the corner of his eyes. “You think so? Thought you didn’t like them.” 

You shrugged, trying to make the action look casual. “They...really didn’t help me much.” 

“What was it like?” Bucky asked.

The fact that you had asked him the same question just a few minutes ago was not lost on you. 

“Terrible,” you said, trying not to shrug again or fiddle with the ends of your shirt or anything else that would indicate that you were uncomfortable with the conversation.

Bucky had answered your questions about the 1940s, the least you could do was return the favor. 

Nevertheless, you felt as if insects were crawling underneath your skin and somehow, you could still feel the ghosts of attendants hands on your wrists, your leg, your neck...

You shuddered.  
**  
Oh God, I should really get home and feed the dog. I should call Lucy and get her to...**

**I swear I better get paid for this.  
**   
“That bad, huh?” Bucky steered you away from the street, so the two of you could sit on one of the park benches. It struck you then how similar this was to the first time you saw him. Your head, reeling with the half-mad thoughts of a HYDRA soldier. 

Except this time, neither of you were alone. The thought warmed you somehow, even as the grasping fingers of your thoughts remained cold. 

You tried to smile at him, though you could feel your lips trembling at the edges. 

“I can’t say I blame them,” you said. Somehow your eyes felt heavy as if you couldn’t quite find it in you to look him in the eyes. “The voices got worse after I was committed. Sometimes they had to strap me down so I wouldn’t hurt myself.”

It felt as if the images had been burned into your the inside of your eyelids, every time you blinked, you saw white lights, the kind, gentle face of Ray, the attendant, as his huge hands held you in place. Nurses on either side of you tightening the straps that held you to the bed.

You hid your face in your hands, your face burning with shame.

There is something so debasing, so innately humiliating, about being tied down like an animal. A certain helplessness, maybe, in the feeling of flexing your arms and feeling only the cold bite of leather.

When you looked up at Bucky, however, you didn’t see pity, the kind you sometimes saw on the nurses’ faces whenever they entered your room for your daily meds.

Instead, you saw understanding.

You realized then that if anyone knew what it felt like to be held down and treated like an animal, it was Bucky. 

“Didn’t realize it was that bad,” he said and you felt cold metal fingers gently touching against yours. 

You were acutely, painfully aware of just how close he was.

“It probably isn’t,” you admitted. “I was labeled one of the more unstable cases.”

You would die, you thought, if he asked about it now. 

As if sensing your thoughts, Bucky suddenly changed the topic. 

“I’m going to do it, though,” he said quietly. “Go to a therapist.”

Seems like the right thing to do.

**Oh thank God, Lucy already fed the dog.**

**\--think I’ll take him on a nice, long walk.**

“Doesn’t seem right,” he said. “Working as an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. when I could be putting people in danger.”

“Bucky...”

“No, listen. I can still feel it. Every damn thing that HYDRA’s put inside my head. ‘s still there. I can’t risk hurting...anyone. Not if I could find a way to stop it.”

His body had gone tight, the way it always did whenever he was preparing himself for a fight.

It reminded you of the way an animal froze after catching the scent of a predator, seconds away from either running or throwing itself into the fight of its life.

Bucky was terrified, you realized. Terrified of what a therapist would unearth inside his head, of how Fury could use that information against it. 

But he was still going to go to one if it meant keeping people around him safe.

You didn’t think you would ever understand that kind of bravery.

“Okay,” you said and it felt like the word stole the very breath from your lungs. There were a thousand sentiments swirling in your head right now, things that you wanted to say, but couldn’t.  
_  
I think you’re doing the right thing and I admire you for it._

_I’m here whenever you need to talk--_

_I love you._

But instead, you simply said, “Okay.” and hoped that was enough. 

Judging by the way Bucky leaned against you, all warmth and smiles and all the good things you’ve never had in your life, that “Okay.” was enough

*********

It was late when you got back to your tiny apartment. The two of you had ended up eating dinner at some hole-in-the-wall dinner, one that served cheap dinner and the lighting made your head ache.

But Bucky had made jokes and had laughed whenever you told him about some modern tech that he didn’t understand. 

You could still smell his scent clinging to you. You understood then how a person could get drunk without drinking a drop of alcohol. 

When you flicked open the switch, you saw that somebody had placed a white folder on your bed. Probably Fury or one of his lackeys.

The idea of Nick Fury having a key to your apartment was more than a little unsettling.

Your steps still a little unsteady, you made your way to the bed and flipped open the folder.

Inside was a photo of an older man. He looked tired, you thought. Glasses that failed to hide the bag under his eyes, curly hair that was only slightly mussed, as if he had just finished running his hand over it.

You read the first few lines of the file that came with the photo.

_Name: Banner, Bruce._  
Sex: Male  
Date of birth: December 18, 1969.  
Age: 48.  
Status: Missing.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT I’VE BEEN WORKING ON THIS FOR WEEKS. THAT I FINALLY FINISHED IT MAKES ME WANT TO CRY. Seriously, guys, you have no idea how long I’ve been trying to write this down. I started working on it immediately after I posted the last chapter. I could cry. 
> 
> Shameless plug here, but if you want to read about how Steve’s stopping earthquakes in the Bronx, check out my new Steve Rogers x Reader story, [ Fault Line](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10382715/chapters/22930503)


	21. Flee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for the long wait, it’s been...well, it’s been a hard couple of months and I needed to take some time off writing to deal with some things.
> 
> Also, I lost like the first third of this chapter somewhere within the depths of my computer and I had to rewrite it. I also had to do some brainstorming concerning this arc, since I hadn’t really planned out how it would go. 
> 
> But I’m back! A huge thank you and an internet hug to everyone who commented on the last chapter, as well as to the anons who sent some really sweet messages to me on Tumblr.
> 
> Speaking of Tumblr, do any of you have experience posting multi-chaptered fics on there? I’ve been talking with a friend of mine and I’ve been contemplating with the idea of posting my fics on Tumblr, considering that my other writing site has been...well, kind of dead. So if any of you do post your writing on Tumblr, I’d love to hear about it and what’s it like! 
> 
> Also. Guess whose x-ray results came back positive for tuberculosis?
> 
> That’s right. Me. I’d like to think that it means that I’ve got this superpower where I can cough on people I don’t like and then they’ll get sick. 
> 
> I am vengeance. I am the night.

“So I should just try to move the glass?”

“Without touching it, yes.”

“Can I touch the table?”

The woman across the table from you wrinkled her nose prettily and let out a laugh. Seriously, how could anyone look pretty while wrinkling their nose? But Wanda Maximoff managed it anyway.

“No. You’re not allowed to throw stuff at it, too,” she clarified.

You stared at the glass of water apprehensively.

“I’ve never tried to move things with my mind before,” you said, feeling your gut tighten. What if, instead of moving the glass a couple of inches, you accidentally made it explode in Wanda’s face?

Your apprehension must have shown on your face because the redhead flashed a brilliant smile.

“The first time I tried to use my powers like this, it was on an old alphabet block,” she said. Her voice had a strange, wispy quality to it like she was remembering something.

“And it moved?” you prompted after several minutes of silence.

“It shot straight into a wall,” Wanda said and for some reason, the memory made her smile. “It nearly took my brother’s nose off.”

“Somehow you don’t seem to upset about that,” you noted.

“Serves him right, trying to grab it out of midair,” the redhead said. Then she visibly shook herself and focused back on the glass on the table.

“You’re stalling,” she said in a sharp voice, making you jump. “Move the glass.”

It was worth a try, you supposed. Making a note to ask Wanda more about her brother in the future, you focused on the glass.

You weren’t exactly sure how you were supposed to move a glass of water. With reading people’s thoughts, it was different. It was reaching back towards a single voice and following it to the source, it was adding your own thoughts to another person's.

How were you supposed to talk to an inanimate object?

You decided to give it a try anyway, focusing your thoughts on the glass.  
 **  
Move towards me, glass.**

**Move towards me.**

The glass, however, remained stubbornly in its place.

Outside the room, you could hear the thwack of someone hitting a punching bag. Someone was yelling...or talking very loudly.

“Just focus on the glass,” Wanda advised. “It gets harder the more distracted.”

“Maybe I should be doing more hand gestures?” you tried.

“It’ll be better if you use your mind first.”

After several more moments of concentrating, you felt something in the back of your head open and the silence that you had often associated with Wanda’s presence broke open. And words once again flooded in your mind.

**Nice left hook that one.**

**Wonder if he'll teach me how to make that block...**

**...dreams last night...**

Still, for Wanda’s sake, you soldiered on, trying to project your thoughts on the glass of water.

**Move, glass, move!**

Just when you thought it wasn’t working, small droplets of water wet the surface of the wood as the glass slowly inched in place.

_Holy shit._

Something inside you burst, a wave of ecstasy that had you jumping up in your seat. Were you the one doing this? Moving glass?

With your mind?

Your mind flashed back to the dying man on the table, tortured because of something you ordered him to do. And you thought that maybe, maybe you wouldn’t have to use that sort of power after all.

That was until you saw the strands of red light rising from the bottom of the glass, disappearing in the sunlight like smoke.

“Hey, you cheated!” you accused Wanda. “Man, I really thought that I could move it.”

The redhead looked at you, her brows furrowing. “You...made me want to move it. I think.”

“I did? But I thought that I couldn’t...”

She gestured to her head as if flicking away an insect that’s been buzzing near her ear. “I felt a compulsion to move...sort of like a voice in my head telling me what to do.”

“Oh.” You stared at the glance, ignoring the sinking feeling in your stomach as you did so. 

So was ordering people the only thing you could do?

“Let’s try again,” Wanda said, seeing the look on your face. “Don’t worry, I’ll try to resist you this time.” 

“Okay,” you said, though you had the sneaking suspicion that she was just saying it to pacify you. Still, a part of you was curious on whether or not it can be resisted. 

You tried again, this time, keeping half of your attention on Wanda to make sure that she wasn’t going to interfere again.  
 **  
...the hell does he want?**

The sound of a door slamming broke your concentration and you turned just in time to see Bucky storm into the room, a scowl on his face. 

You were halfway out of your seat when the door slammed again, and Sam and Steve followed after Bucky.

“What happened?” Wanda asked, catching the alarmed look on your face. “Is something wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Steve said, a little too quickly.

**\--nearly killed that--**

**...said I should...**

**\--this bad--**

“Fury wants to talk to us. Something about Bruce,” Sam explained. 

“Oh.” Wanda looked away, her expression full of guilt. Black-painted fingernails tapped idly against the table surface. 

According to the file that Nick had given you, there was some tension between the missing Bruce Banner and Wanda.

Well, to be honest, what the file actually said, Interaction between Bruce Banner and Wanda Maximoff is inadvisable. 

**Just a kid when she...**

**Where’d he go?**

**Should go after him.**

“And Bucky?” you prodded. “Why’s he so upset?” 

Did the thought of talking to Fury upset him that much? Or was it something else? Did he know Bruce Banner?

“Nothing,” Sam said, much in the same tone that Steve used. 

You frowned at him because it didn’t seem like 'nothing' at all.

**Happened so fast...**

**Going to hurt in the morning.**

“Don’t go poking around in my head,” Sam said sternly. “Bucky just got upset, that’s all. He wouldn’t want you fussing over him. Steve’s got this, don’t worry.” 

Has anyone ever tried not worrying? It was a paradox. The more you tried not to worry, the more it gets to you.

“I’m going to go check on him,” you said standing up, the glass on the table forgotten.

You ignored Sam’s long-suffering sigh and the sounds of him striking up a conversation with Wanda. and you pushed open the door leading to one of the break rooms.

Inside you saw Bucky sitting on the sofa, his face vacant and his eyes staring at something only he could see. Steve sat beside him, saying something that you couldn’t hear.  
 **  
Didn’t really mean it--**

**Shouldn’t have pushed him to...**

They both looked up when they saw you. 

You face grew hot. As always, with the two of them, you felt like you’ve walked in on something private. Anyone who looked at them knew that they had a long history together and it was hard not to feel like the outsider. 

“Bucky,” you said and you were relieved when your voice didn’t shake. “Are you all right? What’s wrong? You looked upset.” 

He smiled wearily at you and just when you expected him to say, “It’s nothing.” like Steve and Sam did, he simply said, “Bit of a bad day, sweetheart. That’s all.”

“Are you--” you paused. You’d already asked him if he was all right. “Is there anything I can do?” 

Bucky leaned back into the chair and breathed out through his nose. “I’ll be fine. I just need some air.” 

Without another word, he stood up from his seat and went to another room, leaving you alone with Steve.

“Leave him,” Steve said, noticing that you were about to follow. “I think it’s best if we just give him space.”

**Space from me too...**

**Shouldn’t have followed him...**

“What happened?” you asked. You knew that while Wanda was helping you get a feel for your powers, Sam, Steve, and Bucky usually trained in one of the nearby rooms. 

On those occasions, you’d occasionally hear thumps and curses coming from the room, but you’ve never seen anyone actually get upset.

Steve grimaced. “I really don’t know. Just...some bad memories for him, I think.”

“Oh.” You didn’t know what to say to that. “Like before or...?” 

Before he became the Winter Soldier or after? 

It was amazing how quickly one can develop a vocabulary for things you’d rather leave unsaid.

“I don’t know,” Steve said, looking frustrated. “I was hoping you’d be able to help me with that, ma’am.”

“Me?” You blinked. “Why me?”

Normally, you would have suggested Sam, who knew when to make a joke and when to offer a comforting shoulder. But considering how much time the two spent ragging on the other, you knew better than to suggest him.

The blonde gave you a half-smile, his expression halfway between embarrassment and shame. “He talks to you.”

**More than he talks to me, at any rate.**

You rarely spent time alone with Steve but looking at him now, there was a sort of sadness to him, the kind that you’d often see in Bucky. 

The kind that you’d often see after a run-in with HYDRA soldiers, just as the adrenaline was wearing away and the exhaustion was setting in, Bucky would get this blank look on him, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with himself now that there was no one to punch, no mission to accomplish.

You saw that same sadness in Steve now, and suddenly, it was incredibly hard to see him as anything than a man out of time. 

“Steve?”

“Yes, ma’am?” He was still staring at the door Bucky left through. 

“Are you okay?”

Steve opened his mouth, maybe to say that he was, but after a moment of thought closed it. 

Silence.

One breath, two. “I just wish he’d talk to me,” he mumbled, and color rose in his cheeks, his eyes downcast. “About...about HYDRA. I just wish I could help.”

He sighed a weary, bone-deep sigh. It was strange to see him that way, small somehow, frustrated. 

Steve looked so different, then, different from the Captain America you’ve seen in the old films. In those films, he looked like he could do anything. 

Now, sitting in a small room, his shirt still damp from sweat, Steve looked...

 _Human_. The word bubbled up in your head unknowingly and not for the first time, it struck you how similar he was to Bucky.

“Does he...” Steve hesitated. “Does he talk to you about it? With you?”   
**  
I shouldn’t have asked that but--**

You sucked in your breath, remembered all the things you’ve seen in his head; the chair, the scientists looking at him like he was some sort of animal, the kill dates in his head.

Guilt bubbled in the pit of your stomach. 

“Not a lot,” you said softly. “Just...just to explain things, after we rescued him from HYDRA. And...and sometimes he doesn’t _say_ it.”

It takes a second or two before Steve gets it, and his mouth twists in a way that could have been a smile or a frown.

“Do you think you could--” Steve paused, looking torn. 

**No.**

“Actually, forget I said anything. He wouldn’t want me snooping.” 

He looked miserable, even as he did the right thing.

You glanced at the door where Bucky had left.

And sat down next to Steve.

Your heart was pounding in your chest and the tips of your fingers trembled. What if you messed it up? What if Steve didn’t listen to what you had to say?

The palms of your hands were slick with sweat. You wiped them on your jeans. 

Maybe Steve would listen to everything you had to say and then just laugh at you, walk away. Maybe he’ll find Sam or Wanda or Bucky and maybe they’ll laugh at you too.

Though you knew that Steve wasn’t like that, that none of them were like that 

Sometimes other peoples’ thoughts are the hardest voices to deal with. And sometimes they were the easiest.

“You know,” you started, and your voice caught in the lump in your throat. “I used to be jealous of you. I think I still am.”

“Because of the soldier serum?” he guessed.

A lot of Captain America’s files had been released to the internet several months ago. Sam had told you that this was part of an S.H.I.E.L.D. agent’s plan to expose HYDRA and break its hold on S.H.I.E.L.D. As a result, a lot of people lives’, including Steve Rogers’ became available for public consumption. 

“No,” you said. Though a lot of people would have said yes. “Bucky talked a lot about you. Whenever we stopped for the night. We’d tell funny stories. Happy ones.”

Steve didn’t move, but you were sure that he was listening to you.

“You were...well. He told me about Coney Island. And that time the two of you went to the beach. Or when your dad took the two of you fishing.” 

You paused. Though he still wasn’t looking at you, Steve was smiling, maybe faintly. But it was there. 

“He was happy. Whenever he talked about what you two did together.” 

Does he remember...

It was suddenly hard to look at Steve now, and you looked at your lap instead, looked at the way your hands were clenched together.

“When we met,” you said quietly. “He was being chased by HYDRA soldiers. We were on the run for...I don’t even know how long. I don’t think he has a happy memory of me.”

But you had many happy memories of him.

But you didn’t say that. It would kill you to say that.

“I think you help him,” Steve said quietly. “The few times we’ve seen each other after HYDRA got a hold of him, we were trying to kill each other. I think it helps him to know that not everyone out there’s going to try and use him.” 

He blew out his breath in a way that made you think of deflating balloons.

“Thank you,” he said. “For telling me. It’s nice to know that he remembers me.”

**\--re they doing in there?**

The squeak of unoiled hinges interrupted what you were about to say and Sam barreled into the room, Wanda just a few steps behind him.

“You could’ve knocked first!” she scolded.

Sam paused, taking the two of you in, a knowing smirk on his face.

The word leaped to your lips before you could stop him.

“Don’t you _dare_ , Sam Wilson--”

“You’re lucky I was the one who caught you instead of Barnes,” he said and before you could reply, he threw you the bombshell. “Fury wants to see us in the briefing room. You guys go ahead. I’ll go find Barnes.”

*********

It was the Russian that stopped you.

Just before entering the room, you had heard a string of Russian coming from behind the door.

Another voice. This time in Filipino, one you recognized as Fury’s. 

Fury must have told whoever was inside that room with him that you couldn’t understand thoughts in different languages.

Your hand hovered above the doorknob. 

What if Fury was in a meeting? Would he get upset if you disturbed him?

Steve, however, had no such hang-ups and threw open the door. You followed after him, surveying the room.

Large screens took up almost an entire wall and even from a distance, you saw that it was taking videos of a small town. One of the screens showed a blue Kia parked outside of a small white house.

Another showed a shot of several helicopters circling something on the ground.

Just when you were about to take a closer look, one of the helicopters exploded, flames engulfing the entire flame as it careened to the ground.

A giant green...something leaped onto the second helicopter. 

Steve made a small noise beside you.

When you looked at him, his eyes were fixed on the screen.

“Doctor Banner,” he said. “They’ve found him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the rushed quality of this work. But I’m literally rushing to post this because I promised myself that I’ll have it done by this week and I’m going to be really quite busy until Sunday.


End file.
